CHAPTER XXXIII

’twanttobemarried,”Katharinerepliedemphatically,andadded,“Why,afterall,isn’titperfectlypossibletolivetogetherwithoutbeingmarried?” AgainMrs.Hilberylookeddiscomposed,and,inhertrouble,tookupthesheetswhichwerelyinguponthetable,andbeganturningthemoverthiswayandthat,andmutteringtoherselfassheglanced: “AplusBminusCequalsxyz.It’ssodreadfullyugly,Katharine.That’swhatIfeel—sodreadfullyugly.” Katharinetookthesheetsfromhermother’shandandbeganshufflingthemabsent-mindedlytogether,forherfixedgazeseemedtoshowthatherthoughtswereintentuponsomeothermatter. “Well,Idon’tknowaboutugliness,”shesaidatlength. “Buthedoesn’taskitofyou?”Mrs.Hilberyexclaimed.“Notthatgraveyoungmanwiththesteadybrowneyes?” “Hedoesn’taskanything—weneitherofusaskanything.” “IfIcouldhelpyou,Katharine,bythememoryofwhatIfelt—” “Yes,tellmewhatyoufelt.” Mrs.Hilbery,hereyesgrowingblank,peereddowntheenormouslylongcorridorofdaysatthefarendofwhichthelittlefiguresofherselfandherhusbandappearedfantasticallyattired,claspinghandsuponamoonlitbeach,withrosesswinginginthedusk. “Wewereinalittleboatgoingouttoashipatnight,”shebegan.“Thesunhadsetandthemoonwasrisingoverourheads.Therewerelovelysilverlightsuponthewavesandthreegreenlightsuponthesteamerinthemiddleofthebay.Yourfather’sheadlookedsograndagainstthemast.Itwaslife,itwasdeath.Thegreatseawasroundus.Itwasthevoyageforeverandever.” Theancientfairy-talefellroundlyandharmoniouslyuponKatharine’sears.Yes,therewastheenormousspaceoftheseatherewerethethreegreenlightsuponthesteamerthecloakedfiguresclimbedupondeck.Andso,voyagingoverthegreenandpurplewaters,pastthecliffsandthesandylagoonsandthroughpoolscrowdedwiththemastsofshipsandthesteeplesofchurches—heretheywere.Theriverseemedtohavebroughtthemanddepositedthemhereatthisprecisepoint.Shelookedadmiringlyathermother,thatancientvoyager. “Whoknows,”exclaimedMrs.Hilbery,continuingherreveries,“whereweareboundfor,orwhy,orwhohassentus,orwhatweshallfind—whoknowsanything,exceptthatloveisourfaith—love—”shecrooned,andthesoftsoundbeatingthroughthedimwordswasheardbyherdaughterasthebreakingofwavessolemnlyinorderuponthevastshorethatshegazedupon.Shewouldhavebeencontentforhermothertorepeatthatwordalmostindefinitely—asoothingwordwhenutteredbyanother,arivetingtogetheroftheshatteredfragmentsoftheworld.ButMrs.Hilbery,insteadofrepeatingthewordlove,saidpleadingly: “Andyouwon’tthinkthoseuglythoughtsagain,willyou,Katharine?”atwhichwordstheshipwhichKatharinehadbeenconsideringseemedtoputintoharborandhavedonewithitsseafaring.Yetshewasingreatneed,ifnotexactlyofsympathy,ofsomeformofadvice,or,atleast,oftheopportunityofsettingforthherproblemsbeforeathirdpersonsoastorenewtheminherowneyes. “Butthen,”shesaid,ignoringthedifficultproblemofugliness,“youknewyouwereinlovebutwe’redifferent.Itseems,”shecontinued,frowningalittleasshetriedtofixthedifficultfeeling,“asifsomethingcametoanendsuddenly—gaveout—faded—anillusion—asifwhenwethinkwe’reinlovewemakeitup—weimaginewhatdoesn’texist.That’swhyit’simpossiblethatweshouldevermarry.Alwaystobefindingtheotheranillusion,andgoingoffandforgettingaboutthem,nevertobecertainthatyoucared,orthathewasn’tcaringforsomeonenotyouatall,thehorrorofchangingfromonestatetotheother,beinghappyonemomentandmiserablethenext—that’sthereasonwhywecan’tpossiblymarry.Atthesametime,”shecontinued,“wecan’tlivewithouteachother,because—”Mrs.Hilberywaitedpatientlyforthesentencetobecompleted,butKatharinefellsilentandfingeredhersheetoffigures. “Wehavetohavefaithinourvision,”Mrs.Hilberyresumed,glancingatthefigures,whichdistressedhervaguely,andhadsomeconnectioninhermindwiththehouseholdaccounts,“otherwise,asyousay—”Shecastalightningglanceintothedepthsofdisillusionmentwhichwere,perhaps,notaltogetherunknowntoher. “Believeme,Katharine,it’sthesameforeveryone—forme,too—foryourfather,”shesaidearnestly,andsighed.Theylookedtogetherintotheabyssand,astheelderofthetwo,sherecoveredherselffirstandasked: “ButwhereisRalph?Whyisn’theheretoseeme?” Katharine’sexpressionchangedinstantly. “Becausehe’snotallowedtocomehere,”sherepliedbitterly. Mrs.Hilberybrushedthisaside. “Wouldtherebetimetosendforhimbeforeluncheon?”sheasked. Katharinelookedatherasif,indeed,sheweresomemagician.Oncemoreshefeltthatinsteadofbeingagrownwoman,usedtoadviseandcommand,shewasonlyafootortworaisedabovethelonggrassandthelittleflowersandentirelydependentuponthefigureofindefinitesizewhoseheadwentupintothesky,whosehandwasinhers,forguidance. “I’mnothappywithouthim,”shesaidsimply. Mrs.Hilberynoddedherheadinamannerwhichindicatedcompleteunderstanding,andtheimmediateconceptionofcertainplansforthefuture.Shesweptupherflowers,breathedintheirsweetness,and,hummingalittlesongaboutamiller’sdaughter,lefttheroom. ThecaseuponwhichRalphDenhamwasengagedthatafternoonwasnotapparentlyreceivinghisfullattention,andyettheaffairsofthelateJohnLeakeofDublinweresufficientlyconfusedtoneedallthecarethatasolicitorcouldbestowuponthem,ifthewidowLeakeandthefiveLeakechildrenoftenderageweretoreceiveanypittanceatall.ButtheappealtoRalph’shumanityhadlittlechanceofbeingheardto-dayhewasnolongeramodelofconcentration.Thepartitionsocarefullyerectedbetweenthedifferentsectionsofhislifehadbeenbrokendown,withtheresultthatthoughhiseyeswerefixeduponthelastWillandTestament,hesawthroughthepageacertaindrawing-roominCheyneWalk. Hetriedeverydevicethathadprovedeffectiveinthepastforkeepingupthepartitionsofthemind,untilhecoulddecentlygohomebutalittletohisalarmhefoundhimselfassailedsopersistently,asiffromoutside,byKatharine,thathelaunchedforthdesperatelyintoanimaginaryinterviewwithher.Sheobliteratedabookcasefulloflawreports,andthecornersandlinesoftheroomunderwentacurioussofteningofoutlinelikethatwhichsometimesmakesaroomunfamiliaratthemomentofwakingfromsleep.Bydegrees,apulseorstressbegantobeatatregularintervalsinhismind,heapinghisthoughtsintowavestowhichwordsfittedthemselves,andwithoutmuchconsciousnessofwhathewasdoing,hebegantowriteonasheetofdraftpaperwhathadtheappearanceofapoemlackingseveralwordsineachline.Notmanylineshadbeensetdown,however,beforehethrewawayhispenasviolentlyasifthatwereresponsibleforhismisdeeds,andtorethepaperintomanyseparatepieces.ThiswasasignthatKatharinehadassertedherselfandputtohimaremarkthatcouldnotbemetpoetically.Herremarkwasentirelydestructiveofpoetry,sinceitwastotheeffectthatpoetryhadnothingwhatevertodowithherallherfriendsspenttheirlivesinmakingupphrases,shesaidallhisfeelingwasanillusion,andnextmoment,asiftotaunthimwithhisimpotence,shehadsunkintooneofthosedreamystateswhichtooknoaccountwhateverofhisexistence.RalphwasrousedbyhispassionateattemptstoattractherattentiontothefactthathewasstandinginthemiddleofhislittleprivateroominLincoln’sInnFieldsataconsiderabledistancefromChelsea.Thephysicaldistanceincreasedhisdesperation.Hebeganpacingincirclesuntiltheprocesssickenedhim,andthentookasheetofpaperforthecompositionofaletterwhich,hevowedbeforehebeganit,shouldbesentthatsameevening. Itwasadifficultmattertoputintowordspoetrywouldhavedoneitbetterjustice,buthemustabstainfrompoetry.Inaninfinitenumberofhalf-obliteratedscratcheshetriedtoconveytoherthepossibilitythatalthoughhumanbeingsarewoefullyill-adaptedforcommunication,still,suchcommunionisthebestweknowmoreover,theymakeitpossibleforeachtohaveaccesstoanotherworldindependentofpersonalaffairs,aworldoflaw,ofphilosophy,ormorestrangelyaworldsuchashehadhadaglimpseoftheothereveningwhentogethertheyseemedtobesharingsomething,creatingsomething,anideal—avisionflungoutinadvanceofouractualcircumstances