[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第2部分

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in　service。　There　lay　the　gigantic　goldrimmed　spectacles；　
ready　to　his　hand；　and　beneath　the　table　was　a　pair　of　
large；　worn　slippers；　one　of　which　Katharine　picked　up；　
remarking：　

“I　think　my　grandfather　must　have　been　at　least　twice　as　
large　as　any　one　is　nowadays。　This；”　she　went　on；　as　if　she　
knew　what　she　had　to　say　by　heart；　“is　the　original　manuscript　
of　the　‘Ode　to　Winter。’　The　early　poems　are　far　less　
corrected　than　the　later。　Would　you　like　to　look　at　it？”　

While　Mr。　Denham　examined　the　manuscript；　she　glanced　
up　at　her　grandfather；　and；　for　the　thousandth　time；　fell　
into　a　pleasant　dreamy　state　in　which　she　seemed　to　be　
the　panion　of　those　giant　men；　of　their　own　lineage；　
at　any　rate；　and　the　insignificant　present　moment　was　

put　to　shame。　That　magnificent　ghostly　head　on　the　canvas；　
surely；　never　beheld　all　the　trivialities　of　a　Sunday　
afternoon；　and　it　did　not　seem　to　matter　what　she　and　
this　young　man　said　to　each　other；　for　they　were　only　
small　people。　

“This　is　a　copy　of　the　first　edition　of　the　poems；”　she　
continued；　without　considering　the　fact　that　Mr。　Denham　
was　still　occupied　with　the　manuscript；　“which　contains　
several　poems　that　have　not　been　reprinted；　as　well　as　
corrections。”　She　paused　for　a　minute；　and　then　went　on；　
as　if　these　spaces　had　all　been　calculated。　

“That　lady　in　blue　is　my　greatgrandmother；　by　
Millington。　Here　is　my　uncle’s　walkingstick—he　was　Sir　
Richard　Warburton；　you　know；　and　rode　with　Havelock　to　
the　Relief　of　Lucknow。　And　then；　let　me　see—oh；　that’s　
the　original　Alardyce；　1697；　the　founder　of　the　family　
fortunes；　with　his　wife。　Some　one　gave　us　this　bowl　the　
other　day　because　it　has　their　crest　and　initials。　We　think　
it　must　have　been　given　them　to　celebrate　their　silver　
weddingday。”　

Here　she　stopped　for　a　moment；　wondering　why　it　was　

9　



Night　and　Day　

that　Mr。　Denham　said　nothing。　Her　feeling　that　he　was　
antagonistic　to　her；　which　had　lapsed　while　she　thought　
of　her　family　possessions；　returned　so　keenly　that　she　
stopped　in　the　middle　of　her　catalog　and　looked　at　him。　
Her　mother；　wishing　to　connect　him　reputably　with　the　
great　dead；　had　pared　him　with　Mr。　Ruskin；　and　the　
parison　was　in　Katharine’s　mind；　and　led　her　to　be　
more　critical　of　the　young　man　than　was　fair；　for　a　young　
man　paying　a　call　in　a　tailcoat　is　in　a　different　element　
altogether　from　a　head　seized　at　its　climax　of　expressiveness；　
gazing　immutably　from　behind　a　sheet　of　glass；　
which　was　all　that　remained　to　her　of　Mr。　Ruskin。　He　had　
a　singular　face—a　face　built　for　swiftness　and　decision　
rather　than　for　massive　contemplation；　the　forehead　broad；　
the　nose　long　and　formidable；　the　lips　cleanshaven　and　
at　once　dogged　and　sensitive；　the　cheeks　lean；　with　a　
deeply　running　tide　of　red　blood　in　them。　His　eyes；　expressive　
now　of　the　usual　masculine　impersonality　and　
authority；　might　reveal　more　subtle　emotions　under　favorable　
circumstances；　for　they　were　large；　and　of　a　clear；　
brown　color；　they　seemed　unexpectedly　to　hesitate　and　

speculate；　but　Katharine　only　looked　at　him　to　wonder　
whether　his　face　would　not　have　e　nearer　the　standard　
of　her　dead　heroes　if　it　had　been　adorned　with　side
whiskers。　In　his　spare　build　and　thin；　though　healthy；　
cheeks；　she　saw　tokens　of　an　angular　and　acrid　soul。　His　
voice；　she　noticed；　had　a　slight　vibrating　or　creaking　sound　
in　it；　as　he　laid　down　the　manuscript　and　said：　

“You　must　be　very　proud　of　your　family；　Miss　Hilbery。”　

“Yes；　I　am；”　Katharine　answered；　and　she　added；　“Do　
you　think　there’s　anything　wrong　in　that？”　

“Wrong？　How　should　it　be　wrong？　It　must　be　a　bore；　
though；　showing　your　things　to　visitors；”　he　added　reflectively。　


“Not　if　the　visitors　like　them。”　

“Isn’t　it　difficult　to　live　up　to　your　ancestors？”　he　proceeded。　


“I　dare　say　I　shouldn’t　try　to　write　poetry；”　Katharine　
replied。　

“No。　And　that’s　what　I　should　hate。　I　couldn’t　bear　my　
grandfather　to　cut　me　out。　And；　after　all；”　Denham　went　
on；　glancing　round　him　satirically；　as　Katharine　thought；　

10　



Virginia　Woolf　

“it’s　not　your　grandfather　only。　You’re　cut　out　all　the　way　
round。　I　suppose　you　e　of　one　of　the　most　distinguished　
families　in　England。　There　are　the　Warburtons　
and　the　Mannings—and　you’re　related　to　the　Otways；　
aren’t　you？　I　read　it　all　in　some　magazine；”　he　added。　

“The　Otways　are　my　cousins；”　Katharine　replied。　

“Well；”　said　Denham；　in　a　final　tone　of　voice；　as　if　his　
argument　were　proved。　

“Well；”　said　Katharine；　“I　don’t　see　that　you’ve　proved　
anything。”　

Denham　smiled；　in　a　peculiarly　provoking　way。　He　was　
amused　and　gratified　to　find　that　he　had　the　power　to　annoy　
his　oblivious；　supercilious　hostess；　if　he　could　not　impress　
her；　though　he　would　have　preferred　to　impress　her。　

He　sat　silent；　holding　the　precious　little　book　of　poems　
unopened　in　his　hands；　and　Katharine　watched　him；　the　
melancholy　or　contemplative　expression　deepening　in　her　
eyes　as　her　annoyance　faded。　She　appeared　to　be　considering　
many　things。　She　had　forgotten　her　duties。　

“Well；”　said　Denham　again；　suddenly　opening　the　little　
book　of　poems；　as　though　he　had　said　all　that　he　meant　

to　say　or　could；　with　propriety；　say。　He　turned　over　the　
pages　with　great　decision；　as　if　he　were　judging　the　book　
in　its　entirety；　the　printing　and　paper　and　binding；　as　
well　as　the　poetry；　and　then；　having　satisfied　himself　of　
its　good　or　bad　quality；　he　placed　it　on　the　writingtable；　
and　examined　the　malacca　cane　with　the　gold　knob　which　
had　belonged　to　the　soldier。　

“But　aren’t　you　proud　of　your　family？”　Katharine　demanded。　


“No；”　said　Denham。　“We’ve　never　done　anything　to　be　
proud　of—unless　you　count　paying　one’s　bills　a　matter　
for　pride。”　

“That　sounds　rather　dull；”　Katharine　remarked。　

“You　would　think　us　horribly　dull；”　Denham　agreed。　

“Yes；　I　might　find　you　dull；　but　I　don’t　think　I　should　
find　you　ridiculous；”　Katharine　added；　as　if　Denham　had　
actually　brought　that　charge　against　her　family。　

“No—because　we’re　not　in　the　least　ridiculous。　We’re　a　
respectable　middleclass　family；　living　at　Highgate。”　

“We　don’t　live　at　Highgate；　but　we’re　middle　class　too；　
I　suppose。”　

11　



Night　and　Day　

Denham　merely　smiled；　and　replacing　the　malacca　cane　
on　the　rack；　he　drew　a　sword　from　its　ornamental　sheath。　

“That　belonged　to　Clive；　so　we　say；”　said　Katharine；　
taking　up　her　duties　as　hostess　again　automatically。　

“Is　it　a　lie？”　Denham　inquired。　

“It’s　a　family　tradition。　I　don’t　know　that　we　can　prove　
it。”　

“You　see；　we　don’t　have　traditions　in　our　family；”　said　
Denham。　

“You　sound　very　dull；”　Katharine　remarked；　for　the　second　
time。　

“Merely　middle　class；”　Denham　replied。　

“You　pay　your　bills；　and　you　speak　the　truth。　I　don’t　see　
why　you　should　despise　us。”　

Mr。　Denham　carefully　sheathed　the　sword　which　the　
Hilberys　said　belonged　to　Clive。　

“I　shouldn’t　like　to　be　you；　that’s　all　I　said；”　he　replied；　
as　if　he　were　saying　what　he　thought　as　accurately　as　he　
could。　

“No；　but　one　never　would　like　to　be　any　one　else。”　

“I　should。　I　should　like　to　be　lots　of　other　people。”　

“Then　why　not　us？”　Katharine　asked。　

Denham　looked　at　her　as　she　sat　in　her　grandfather’s　
armchair；　drawing　her　greatuncle’s　malacca　cane　
smoothly　through　her　fingers；　while　her　background　was　
made　up　equally　of　lustrous　blueandwhite　paint；　and　
crimson　books　with　gilt　lines　on　them。　The　vitality　and　
posure　of　her　attitude；　as　of　a　brightplumed　bird　
poised　easily　before　further　flights；　roused　him　to　show　
her　the　limitations　of　her　lot。　So　soon；　so　easily；　would　
he　be　forgotten。　

“You’ll　never　know　anything　at　first　hand；”　he　began；　
almost　savagely。　“It’s　all　been　done　for　you。　You’ll　never　
know　the　pleasure　of　buying　things　after　saving　up　for　
them；　or　reading　books　for　the　first　time；　or　making　discoveries。”　


“Go　on；”　Katharine　observed；　as　he　paused；　suddenly　
doubtful；　when　he　heard　his　voice　proclaiming　aloud　these　
facts；　whether　there　was　any　truth　in　them。　

“Of　course；　I　don’t　know　how　you　spend　your　time；”　he　
continued；　a　little　stiffly；　“but　I　suppose　you　have　to　
show　people　round。　You　are　writing　a　life　of　your　grand


12　



Virginia　Woolf　

father；　aren’t　you？　And　this　kind　of　thing”—he　nodded　
towards　the　other　room；　where　they　could　hear　bursts　of　
cultivated　laughter—”must　take　up　a　lot　of　time。”　

She　looked　at　him　expectantly；　as　if　between　them　they　
were　decorating　a　small　figure　of　herself；　and　she　saw　
him　hesitating　in　the　disposition　of　some　bow　or　sash。　

“You’ve　got　it　very　nearly　right；”　she　said；　“but　I　only　
help　my　mother。　I　don’t　write　myself。”　

“Do　you　do　anything　yourself？”　he　demanded。　

“What　do　you　mean？”　she　asked。　“I　don’t　leave　the　
house　at　ten　and　e　back　at　six。”　

“I　don’t　mean　that。”　

Mr。　Denham　had　recovered　his　selfcontrol；　he　spoke　
with　a　quietness　which　made　Katharine　rather　anxious　
that　he　should　explain　himself；　but　at　the　same　time　she　
wished　to　annoy　him；　to　waft　him　away　from　her　on　some　
light　current　of　ridicule　or　satire；　as　she　was　wont　to　do　
with　these　intermittent　young　men　of　her　father’s。　

“Nobody　ever　does　do　anything　worth　doing　nowadays；”　
she　remarked。　“You　see”—she　tapped　the　volume　of　her　
grandfather’s　poems—”we　don’t　even　print　as　well　as　they　

did；　and　as　for　poets　or　painters　or　novelists—there　are　
none；　so；　at　any　rate；　I’m　not　singular。”　

“No；　we　haven’t　any　great　men；”　Denham　replied。　“I’m　
very　glad　that　we　haven’t。　I　hate　great　men。　The　worship　
of　greatness　in　the　nieenth　century　seems　to　me　to　
explain　the　worthlessness　of　that　generation。”　

Katharine　opened　her　lips　and　drew　in　her　breath；　as　if　
to　reply　with　equal　vigor；　when　the　shutting　of　a　door　in　
the　next　room　withdrew　her　attention；　and　they　both　
became　conscious　that　the　voices；　which　had　been　rising　
and　falling　round　the　teatable；　had　fallen　silent；　the　
light；　even；　seemed　to　have　sunk　lower。　A　moment　later　
Mrs。　Hilbery　appeared　in　the　doorway　of　the　anteroom。　
She　stood　looking　at　them　with　a　smile　of　expectancy　on　
her　face；　as　if　a　scene　from　the　drama　of　the　younger　
generation　were　being　played　for　her　benefit。　She　was　a　
remarkablelooking　woman；　well　advanced　in　the　sixties；　
but　owing　to　the　lightness　of　her　frame　and　the　brightness　
of　her　eyes　she　seemed　to　have　been　wafted　over　
the　surface　of　the　years　without　taking　much　harm　in　the　
passage。　Her　face　was　shrunken　and　aquiline；　but　any　

13　



Night　and　Day　

hint　of　sharpness　was　dispelled　by　the　large　blue　eyes；　at　
once　sagacious　and　innocent；　which　seemed　to　regard　
the　world　with　an　enormous　desire　that　it　should　behave　
itself　nobly；　and　an　entire　confidence　that　it　could　do　so；　
if　it　would　only　take　the　pains。　

Certain　lines　on　the　broad　forehead　and　about　the　lips　
might　be　taken　to　suggest　that　she　had　known　moments　
of　some　difficulty　and　perplexity　in　the　course　of　her　
career；　but　these　had　not　destroyed　her　trustfulness；　and　
she　was　clearly　still　prepared　to　give　every　one　any　number　
of　fresh　chances　and　the　whole　system　the　benefit　of　
the　doubt。　She　wore　a　great　resemblance　to　her　father；　
and　suggested；　as　he　did；　the　fresh　airs　and　open　spaces　
of　a　younger　world。　

“Well；”　she　said；　“how　do　you　like　our　things；　Mr。　
Denham？”　

Mr。　Denham　rose；　put　his　book　down；　opened　his　
mouth；　but　said　nothing；　as　Katharine　observed；　with　
some　amusement。　

Mrs。　Hilbery　handled　the　book　he　had　laid　down。　

“There　are　some　books　that　live；”　she　mused。　“They　are　

young　with　us；　and　they　grow　old　with　us。　Are　you　fond　
of　poetry；　Mr。　Denham？　But　what　an　absurd　question　to　
ask！　The　truth　is；　dear　Mr。　Fortescue　has　almost　tired　me　
out。　He　is　so　eloquent　and　so　witty；　so　searching　and　so　
profound　that；　after　half　an　hour　or　so；　I　feel　inclined　to　
turn　out　all　the　lights。　But　perhaps　he’d　be　more　wonderful　
than　ever　in　the　dark。　What　d’you　think；　Katharine？　
Shall　we　give　a　little　party　in　plete　darkness？　There’d　
have　to　be　bright　rooms　for　the　bores…　。”　

Here　Mr。　Denham　held　out　his　hand。　

“But　we’ve　any　number　of　things　to　show　you！”　Mrs。　
Hilbery　exclaimed；　taking　no　notice　of　it。　“Books；　pictures；　
china；　manuscripts；　and　the　very　chair　that　Mary　
Queen　of　Scots　sat　in　when　she　heard　of　Darnley’s　murder。　
I　must　lie　down　for　a　little；　and　Katharine　must　change　
her　dress　（though　she’s　wearing　a　very　pretty　one）；　but　if　
you　don’t　mind　being　left　alone；　supper　will　be　at　eight。　
I　dare　say　you’ll　write　a　poem　of　your　own　while　you’re　
waiting。　Ah；　how　I　love　the　firelight！　Doesn’t　our　room　
look　charming？”　

She　stepped　back　and　bade　them　contemplate　the　empty　

14　



Virginia　Woolf　

drawingroom；　with　its　rich；　irregular　lights；　as　the　flames　
leapt　and　wavered。　

“Dear　things！”　she　exclaimed。　“Dear　chairs　and　tables！　
How　like　old　friends　they　are—faithful；　silent　friends。　
Which　reminds　me；　Katharine；　little　Mr。　Anning　is　ing　
tonight；　and　Tite　Street；　and　Cadogan　Square…　。　Do　
remember　to　get　that　drawing　of　your　greatuncle　glazed。　
Aunt　Millicent　remarked　it　last　time　she　was　here；　and　I　
know　how　it　would　hurt　me　to　see　MY　father　in　a　broken　
glass。”　

It　was　like　tearing　through　a　maze　of　diamondglittering　
spiders’　webs　to　say　goodbye　and　escape；　for　at　each　
movement　Mrs。　Hilbery　remembered　something　further　
about　the　villainies　of　pictureframers　or　the　delights　of　
poetry；　and　at　one　time　it　seemed　to　the　young　man　that　
he　would　be　hypnotized　into　doing　what　she　pretended　
to　want　him　to　do；　for　he　could　not　suppose　that　she　
attached　any　value　whatever　to　his　presence。　Katharine；　
however；　made　an　opportunity　for　him　to　leave；　and　for　
that　he　was　grateful　to　her；　as　one　young　person　is　grateful　
for　the　understanding　of　another。　

CHAPTER　II　


The　young　man　shut　the　door　with　a　sharper　slam　than　
any　visitor　had　used　that　afternoon；　and　walked　up　the　
street　at　a　great　pace；　cutting　the　air　with　his　walkingstick。　
He　was　glad　to　find　himself　outside　that　drawing
room；　breathing　raw　fog；　and　in　contact　with　unpolished　
people　who　only　wanted　their　share　of　the　pavement　allowed　
them。　He　thought　that　if　he　had　had　Mr。　or　Mrs。　or　
Miss　Hilbery　out　here　he　would　have　made　them；　somehow；　
feel　his　superiority；　for　he　was　chafed　by　the　memory　
of　halting　awkward　sentences　which　had　failed　to　give　
even　the　young　woman　with　the　sad；　but　inwardly　ironical　
eyes　a　hint　of　his　force。　He　tried　to　recall　the　actual　
words　of　his　little　outburst；　and　unconsciously　supplemented　
them　by　so　many　words　of　greater　expressiveness　
that　the　irritation　of　his　failure　was　somewhat　assuaged。　
Sudden　stabs　of　the　unmitigated　truth　assailed　him　now　
and　then；　for　he　was　not　inclined　by　nature　to　take　a　rosy　
view　of　his　conduct；　but　what　with　the　beat　of　his　foot　
upon　the　pavement；　and　the　glimpse　which　halfdrawn　

15　



Night　and　Day　

curta