him； and； instead of waiting to answer questions； he
jumped up； thrust himself through the seated bodies into
the corner where Katharine was sitting； and exclaimed；
very audibly：
“Well； Katharine； I hope I’ve made a big enough fool of
myself even for you！ It was terrible！ terrible！ terrible！”
“Hush！ You must answer their questions；” Katharine
whispered； desiring； at all costs； to keep him quiet。 Oddly
enough； when the speaker was no longer in front of them；
there seemed to be much that was suggestive in what he
42
Virginia Woolf
had said。 At any rate； a palefaced young man with sad
eyes was already on his feet； delivering an accurately
worded speech with perfect posure。 William Rodney
listened with a curious lifting of his upper lip； although
his face was still quivering slightly with emotion。
“Idiot！” he whispered。 “He’s misunderstood every word
I said！”
“Well then； answer him；” Katharine whispered back。
“No； I shan’t！ They’d only laugh at me。 Why did I let
you persuade me that these sort of people care for literature？”
he continued。
There was much to be said both for and against Mr。
Rodney’s paper。 It had been crammed with assertions that
suchandsuch passages； taken liberally from English；
French； and Italian； are the supreme pearls of literature。
Further； he was fond of using metaphors which； pounded
in the study； were apt to sound either cramped
or out of place as he delivered them in fragments。 Literature
was a fresh garland of spring flowers； he said； in
which yewberries and the purple nightshade mingled with
the various tints of the anemone； and somehow or other
this garland encircled marble brows。 He had read very
badly some very beautiful quotations。 But through his
manner and his confusion of language there had emerged
some passion of feeling which； as he spoke； formed in
the majority of the audience a little picture or an idea
which each now was eager to give expression to。 Most of
the people there proposed to spend their lives in the
practice either of writing or painting； and merely by looking
at them it could be seen that； as they listened to Mr。
Purvis first； and then to Mr。 Greenhalgh； they were seeing
something done by these gentlemen to a possession
which they thought to be their own。 One person after
another rose； and； as with an illbalanced axe； attempted
to hew out his conception of art a little more clearly； and
sat down with the feeling that； for some reason which he
could not grasp； his strokes had gone awry。 As they sat
down they turned almost invariably to the person sitting
next them； and rectified and continued what they had
just said in public。 Before long； therefore； the groups on
the mattresses and the groups on the chairs were all in
munication with each other； and Mary Datchet； who
43
Night and Day
had begun to darn stockings again； stooped down and
remarked to Ralph：
“That was what I call a firstrate paper。”
Both of them instinctively turned their eyes in the direction
of the reader of the paper。 He was lying back
against the wall； with his eyes apparently shut； and his
chin sunk upon his collar。 Katharine was turning over the
pages of his manuscript as if she were looking for some
passage that had particularly struck her； and had a difficulty
in finding it。
“Let’s go and tell him how much we liked it；” said Mary；
thus suggesting an action which Ralph was anxious to
take； though without her he would have been too proud
to do it； for he suspected that he had more interest in
Katharine than she had in him。
“That was a very interesting paper；” Mary began； without
any shyness； seating herself on the floor opposite to
Rodney and Katharine。 “Will you lend me the manuscript
to read in peace？”
Rodney； who had opened his eyes on their approach；
regarded her for a moment in suspicious silence。
“Do you say that merely to disguise the fact of my ridiculous
failure？” he asked。
Katharine looked up from her reading with a smile。
“He says he doesn’t mind what we think of him；” she
remarked。 “He says we don’t care a rap for art of any
kind。”
“I asked her to pity me； and she teases me！” Rodney
exclaimed。
“I don’t intend to pity you； Mr。 Rodney；” Mary remarked；
kindly； but firmly。 “When a paper’s a failure； nobody says
anything； whereas now； just listen to them！”
The sound； which filled the room； with its hurry of short
syllables； its sudden pauses； and its sudden attacks； might be
pared to some animal hubbub； frantic and inarticulate。
“D’you think that’s all about my paper？” Rodney inquired；
after a moment’s attention； with a distinct brightening
of expression。
“Of course it is；” said Mary。 “It was a very suggestive
paper。”
She turned to Denham for confirmation； and he corroborated
her。
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Virginia Woolf
“It’s the ten minutes after a paper is read that proves
whether it’s been a success or not；” he said。 “If I were
you； Rodney； I should be very pleased with myself。”
This mendation seemed to fort Mr。 Rodney pletely；
and he began to bethink him of all the passages
in his paper which deserved to be called “suggestive。”
“Did you agree at all； Denham； with what I said about
Shakespeare’s later use of imagery？ I’m afraid I didn’t
altogether make my meaning plain。”
Here he gathered himself together； and by means of a
series of froglike jerks； succeeded in bringing himself
close to Denham。
Denham answered him with the brevity which is the
result of having another sentence in the mind to be addressed
to another person。 He wished to say to Katharine：
“Did you remember to get that picture glazed before your
aunt came to dinner？” but； besides having to answer
Rodney； he was not sure that the remark； with its assertion
of intimacy； would not strike Katharine as impertinent。
She was listening to what some one in another
group was saying。 Rodney； meanwhile； was talking about
the Elizabethan dramatists。
He was a curiouslooking man since； upon first sight；
especially if he chanced to be talking with animation； he
appeared； in some way； ridiculous； but； next moment； in
repose； his face； with its large nose； thin cheeks and lips
expressing the utmost sensibility； somehow recalled a
Roman head bound with laurel； cut upon a circle of semitransparent
reddish stone。 It had dignity and character。
By profession a clerk in a Government office； he was one
of those martyred spirits to whom literature is at once a
source of divine joy and of almost intolerable irritation。
Not content to rest in their love of it； they must attempt
to practise it themselves； and they are generally endowed
with very little facility in position。 They condemn
whatever they produce。 Moreover； the violence of their
feelings is such that they seldom meet with adequate
sympathy； and being rendered very sensitive by their cultivated
perceptions； suffer constant slights both to their
own persons and to the thing they worship。 But Rodney
could never resist making trial of the sympathies of any
one who seemed favorably disposed； and Denham’s praise
45
Night and Day
had stimulated his very susceptible vanity。
“You remember the passage just before the death of
the Duchess？” he continued； edging still closer to Denham；
and adjusting his elbow and knee in an incredibly angular
bination。 Here； Katharine； who had been cut off
by these maneuvers from all munication with the outer
world； rose； and seated herself upon the windowsill； where
she was joined by Mary Datchet。 The two young women
could thus survey the whole party。 Denham looked after
them； and made as if he were tearing handfuls of grass
up by the roots from the carpet。 But as it fell in accurately
with his conception of life that all one’s desires
were bound to be frustrated； he concentrated his mind
upon literature； and determined； philosophically； to get
what he could out of that。
Katharine was pleasantly excited。 A variety of courses
was open to her。 She knew several people slightly； and at
any moment one of them might rise from the floor and
e and speak to her； on the other hand； she might
select somebody for herself； or she might strike into
Rodney’s discourse； to which she was intermittently at
tentive。 She was conscious of Mary’s body beside her；
but； at the same time； the consciousness of being both
of them women made it unnecessary to speak to her。 But
Mary； feeling； as she had said； that Katharine was a “personality；”
wished so much to speak to her that in a few
moments she did。
“They’re exactly like a flock of sheep； aren’t they？” she
said； referring to the noise that rose from the scattered
bodies beneath her。
Katharine turned and smiled。
“I wonder what they’re making such a noise about？”
she said。
“The Elizabethans； I suppose。”
“No； I don’t think it’s got anything to do with the Elizabethans。
There！ Didn’t you hear them say； ‘Insurance Bill’？”
“I wonder why men always talk about politics？” Mary
speculated。 “I suppose； if we had votes； we should； too。”
“I dare say we should。 And you spend your life in getting
us votes； don’t you？”
“I do；” said Mary； stoutly。 “From ten to six every day
I’m at it。”
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Virginia Woolf
Katharine looked at Ralph Denham； who was now pounding
his way through the metaphysics of metaphor with
Rodney； and was reminded of his talk that Sunday afternoon。
She connected him vaguely with Mary。
“I suppose you’re one of the people who think we should
all have professions；” she said； rather distantly； as if feeling
her way among the phantoms of an unknown world。
“Oh dear no；” said Mary at once。
“Well； I think I do；” Katharine continued； with half a
sigh。 “You will always be able to say that you’ve done
something； whereas； in a crowd like this； I feel rather
melancholy。”
“In a crowd？ Why in a crowd？” Mary asked； deepening
the two lines between her eyes； and hoi