Her remark was entirely destructive of poetry； since
it was to the effect that poetry had nothing whatever to
do with her； all her friends spent their lives in making up
phrases； she said； all his feeling was an illusion； and next
moment； as if to taunt him with his impotence； she had
sunk into one of those dreamy states which took no account
whatever of his existence。 Ralph was roused by his
passionate attempts to attract her attention to the fact
that he was standing in the middle of his little private
room in Lincoln’s Inn Fields at a considerable distance
from Chelsea。 The physical distance increased his desperation。
He began pacing in circles until the process
sickened him； and then took a sheet of paper for the
position of a letter which； he vowed before he began
it； should be sent that same evening。
It was a difficult matter to put into words； poetry would
have done it better justice； but he must abstain from
poetry。 In an infinite number of halfobliterated scratches
he tried to convey to her the possibility that although
human beings are woefully illadapted for munica
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tion； still； such munion is the best we know； moreover；
they make it possible for each to have access to
another world independent of personal affairs； a world of
law； of philosophy； or more strangely a world such as he
had had a glimpse of the other evening when together
they seemed to be sharing something； creating something；
an ideal—a vision flung out in advance of our
actual circumstances。 If this golden rim were quenched；
if life were no longer circled by an illusion （but was it an
illusion after all？）； then it would be too dismal an affair
to carry to an end； so he wrote with a sudden spurt of
conviction which made clear way for a space and left at
least one sentence standing whole。 Making every allowance
for other desires； on the whole this conclusion appeared
to him to justify their relationship。 But the conclusion
was mystical； it plunged him into thought。 The
difficulty with which even this amount was written； the
inadequacy of the words； and the need of writing under
them and over them others which； after all； did no better；
led him to leave off before he was at ail satisfied
with his production； and unable to resist the conviction
that such rambling would never be fit for Katharine’s eye。
He felt himself more cut off from her than ever。 In idleness；
and because he could do nothing further with words；
he began to draw little figures in the blank spaces； heads
meant to resemble her head； blots fringed with flames
meant to represent—perhaps the entire universe。 From
this occupation he was roused by the message that a
lady wished to speak to him。 He had scarcely time to run
his hands through his hair in order to look as much like a
solicitor as possible； and to cram his papers into his
pocket； already overe with shame that another eye
should behold them； when he realized that his preparations
were needless。 The lady was Mrs。 Hilbery。
“I hope you’re not disposing of somebody’s fortune in a
hurry；” she remarked； gazing at the documents on his
table； “or cutting off an entail at one blow； because I
want to ask you to do me a favor。 And Anderson won’t
keep his horse waiting。 （Anderson is a perfect tyrant； but
he drove my dear father to the Abbey the day they buried
him。） I made bold to e to you； Mr。 Denham； not exactly
in search of legal assistance （though I don’t know
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who I’d rather e to； if I were in trouble）； but in order
to ask your help in settling some tiresome little domestic
affairs that have arisen in my absence。 I’ve been to
StratfordonAvon （I must tell you all about that one of
these days）； and there I got a letter from my sisterinlaw；
a dear kind goose who likes interfering with other
people’s children because she’s got none of her own。 （We’re
dreadfully afraid that she’s going to lose the sight of one
of her eyes； and I always feel that our physical ailments
are so apt to turn into mental ailments。 I think Matthew
Arnold says something of the same kind about Lord Byron。）
But that’s neither here nor there。”
The effect of these parentheses； whether they were introduced
for that purpose or represented a natural instinct
on Mrs。 Hilbery’s part to embellish the bareness of
her discourse； gave Ralph time to perceive that she possessed
all the facts of their situation and was e； somehow；
in the capacity of ambassador。
“I didn’t e here to talk about Lord Byron；” Mrs。
Hilbery continued； with a little laugh； “though I know
that both you and Katharine； unlike other young people
of your generation； still find him worth reading。” She
paused。 “I’m so glad you’ve made Katharine read poetry；
Mr。 Denham！” she exclaimed； “and feel poetry； and look
poetry！ She can’t talk it yet； but she will—oh； she will！”
Ralph； whose hand was grasped and whose tongue almost
refused to articulate； somehow contrived to say that there
were moments when he felt hopeless； utterly hopeless； though
he gave no reason for this statement on his part。
“But you care for her？” Mrs。 Hilbery inquired。
“Good God！” he exclaimed； with a vehemence which
admitted of no question。
“It’s the Church of England service you both object to？”
Mrs。 Hilbery inquired innocently。
“I don’t care a damn what service it is；” Ralph replied。
“You would marry her in Westminster Abbey if the worst
came to the worst？” Mrs。 Hilbery inquired。
“I would marry her in St。 Paul’s Cathedral；” Ralph replied。
His doubts upon this point； which were always
roused by Katharine’s presence； had vanished pletely；
and his strongest wish in the world was to be with her
immediately； since every second he was away from her he
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imagined her slipping farther and farther from him into
one of those states of mind in which he was unrepresented。
He wished to dominate her； to possess her。
“Thank God！” exclaimed Mrs。 Hilbery。 She thanked Him
for a variety of blessings： for the conviction with which
the young man spoke； and not least for the prospect that
on her daughter’s weddingday the noble cadences； the
stately periods； the ancient eloquence of the marriage
service would resound over the heads of a distinguished
congregation gathered together near the very spot where
her father lay quiescent with the other poets of England。
The tears filled her eyes； but she remembered simultaneously
that her carriage was waiting； and with dim eyes
she walked to the door。 Denham followed her downstairs。
It was a strange drive。 For Denham it was without exception
the most unpleasant he had ever taken。 His only
wish was to go as straightly and quickly as possible to
Cheyne Walk； but it soon appeared that Mrs。 Hilbery either
ignored or thought fit to baffle this desire by interposing
various errands of her own。 She stopped the carriage
at postoffices； and coffeeshops； and shops of in
scrutable dignity where the aged attendants had to be
greeted as old friends； and； catching sight of the dome of
St。 Paul’s above the irregular spires of Ludgate Hill； she
pulled the cord impulsively； and gave directions that
Anderson should drive them there。 But Anderson had reasons
of his own for discouraging afternoon worship； and
kept his horse’s nose obstinately towards the west。 After
some minutes； Mrs。 Hilbery realized the situation； and
accepted it goodhumoredly； apologizing to Ralph for his
disappointment。
“Never mind；” she said； “we’ll go to St。 Paul’s another
day； and it may turn out； though I can’t promise that it
will； that he’ll take us past Westminster Abbey； which
would be even better。”
Ralph was scarcely aware of what she went on to say。 Her
mind and body both seemed to have floated into another
region of quicksailing clouds rapidly passing across each
other and enveloping everything in a vaporous indistinctness。
Meanwhile he remained conscious of his own concentrated
desire； his impotence to bring about anything
he wished； and his increasing agony of impatience。
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Virginia Woolf
Suddenly Mrs。 Hilbery pulled the cord with such decision
that even Anderson had to listen to the order which she
leant out of the window to give him。 The carriage pulled
up abruptly in the middle of Whitehall before a large building
dedicated to one of our Government offices。 In a second
Mrs。 Hilbery was mounting the steps； and Ralph was left in
too acute an irritation by this further delay even to speculate
what errand took her now to the Board of Education。
He was about to jump from the carriage and take a cab；
when Mrs。 Hilbery reappeared talking genially to a figure
who remained hidden behind her。
“There’s plenty of room for us all；” she was saying。 “Plenty
of room。 We could find space for four of you； William；” she
added； opening the door； and Ralph found that Rodney
had now joined their pany。 The two men glanced at
each other。 If distress； shame； disfort in its most acute
form were ever visible upon a human face； Ralph could
read them all expressed beyond the eloquence of words
upon the face of his unfortunate panion。 But Mrs。
Hilbery was either pletely unseeing or determined to
appear so。 She went on talking； she talked； it seemed to
both the young men； to some one outside； up in the air。
She talked about Shakespeare； she apostrophized the human
race； she proclaimed the virtues of divine poetry； she
began to recite verses which broke down in the middle。
The great advantage of her discourse was that it was self
supporting。 It nourished itself until Cheyne Walk was
reached upon half a dozen grunts and murmurs。
“Now；” she said； alighting briskly at her door； “here we
are！”
There was something airy and ironical in her voice and
expression as she turned upon the doorstep and looked
at them； which filled both Rodney and Denham with the
same misgivings at having trusted their fortunes to such
an ambassador； and Rodney