[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第35部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！


dip　a　pen　when　her　ear　was　caught　by　the　sound　of　a　step　
upon　the　stone　staircase。　She　followed　it　past　Mr。　Chippen’s　
chambers；　past　Mr。　Gibson’s；　past　Mr。　Turner’s；　after　which　
it　became　her　sound。　A　postman；　a　washerwoman；　a　circular；　
a　bill—she　presented　herself　with　each　of　these　
perfectly　natural　possibilities；　but；　to　her　surprise；　her　
mind　rejected　each　one　of　them　impatiently；　even　apprehensively。　
The　step　became　slow；　as　it　was　apt　to　do　at　
the　end　of　the　steep　climb；　and　Mary；　listening　for　the　
regular　sound；　was　filled　with　an　intolerable　nervous


230　



Virginia　Woolf　

ness。　Leaning　against　the　table；　she　felt　the　knock　of　her　
heart　push　her　body　perceptibly　backwards　and　forwards—　
a　state　of　nerves　astonishing　and　reprehensible　in　a　stable　
woman。　Grotesque　fancies　took　shape。　Alone；　at　the　top　
of　the　house；　an　unknown　person　approaching　nearer　and　
nearer—how　could　she　escape？　There　was　no　way　of　escape。　
She　did　not　even　know　whether　that　oblong　mark　
on　the　ceiling　was　a　trapdoor　to　the　roof　or　not。　And　if　
she　got　on　to　the　roof—well；　there　was　a　drop　of　sixty　
feet　or　so　on　to　the　pavement。　But　she　sat　perfectly　still；　
and　when　the　knock　sounded；　she　got　up　directly　and　
opened　the　door　without　hesitation。　She　saw　a　tall　figure　
outside；　with　something　ominous　to　her　eyes　in　the　look　
of　it。　

“What　do　you　want？”　she　said；　not　recognizing　the　face　
in　the　fitful　light　of　the　staircase。　

“Mary？　I’m　Katharine　Hilbery！”　

Mary’s　selfpossession　returned　almost　excessively；　and　
her　wele　was　decidedly　cold；　as　if　she　must　recoup　
herself　for　this　ridiculous　waste　of　emotion。　She　moved　
her　greenshaded　lamp　to　another　table；　and　covered　

“Some　Aspects　of　the　Democratic　State”　with　a　sheet　of　
blottingpaper。　

“Why　can’t　they　leave　me　alone？”　she　thought　bitterly；　
connecting　Katharine　and　Ralph　in　a　conspiracy　to　take　
from　her　even　this　hour　of　solitary　study；　even　this　poor　
little　defence　against　the　world。　And；　as　she　smoothed　
down　the　sheet　of　blottingpaper　over　the　manuscript；　
she　braced　herself　to　resist　Katharine；　whose　presence　
struck　her；　not　merely　by　its　force；　as　usual；　but　as　something　
in　the　nature　of　a　menace。　

“You’re　working？”　said　Katharine；　with　hesitation；　perceiving　
that　she　was　not　wele。　

“Nothing　that　matters；”　Mary　replied；　drawing　forward　
the　best　of　the　chairs　and　poking　the　fire。　

“I　didn’t　know　you　had　to　work　after　you　had　left　the　
office；”　said　Katharine；　in　a　tone　which　gave　the　impression　
that　she　was　thinking　of　something　else；　as　was；　
indeed；　the　case。　

She　had　been　paying　calls　with　her　mother；　and　in　between　
the　calls　Mrs。　Hilbery　had　rushed　into　shops　and　
bought　pillowcases　and　blottingbooks　on　no　percep


231　



Night　and　Day　

tible　method　for　the　furnishing　of　Katharine’s　house。　
Katharine　had　a　sense　of　impedimenta　accumulating　on　
all　sides　of　her。　She　had　left　her　at　length；　and　had　e　
on　to　keep　an　engagement　to　dine　with　Rodney　at　his　
rooms。　But　she　did　not　mean　to　get　to　him　before　seven　
o’clock；　and　so　had　plenty　of　time　to　walk　all　the　way　
from　Bond　Street　to　the　Temple　if　she　wished　it。　The　flow　
of　faces　streaming　on　either　side　of　her　had　hypnotized　
her　into　a　mood　of　profound　despondency；　to　which　her　
expectation　of　an　evening　alone　with　Rodney　contributed。　
They　were　very　good　friends　again；　better　friends；　
they　both　said；　than　ever　before。　So　far　as　she　was　concerned　
this　was　true。　There　were　many　more　things　in　
him　than　she　had　guessed　until　emotion　brought　them　
forth—strength；　affection；　sympathy。　And　she　thought　
of　them　and　looked　at　the　faces　passing；　and　thought　
how　much　alike　they　were；　and　how　distant；　nobody　feeling　
anything　as　she　felt　nothing；　and　distance；　she　
thought；　lay　inevitably　between　the　closest；　and　their　
intimacy　was　the　worst　presence　of　all。　For；　“Oh　dear；”　
she　thought；　looking　into　a　tobacconist’s　window；　“I　don’t　

care　for　any　of　them；　and　I　don’t　care　for　William；　and　
people　say　this　is　the　thing　that　matters　most；　and　I　
can’t　see　what　they　mean　by　it。”　

She　looked　desperately　at　the　smoothbowled　pipes；　
and　wondered—should　she　walk　on　by　the　Strand　or　by　
the　Embankment？　It　was　not　a　simple　question；　for　it　
concerned　not　different　streets　so　much　as　different　
streams　of　thought。　If　she　went　by　the　Strand　she　would　
force　herself　to　think　out　the　problem　of　the　future；　or　
some　mathematical　problem；　if　she　went　by　the　river　she　
would　certainly　begin　to　think　about　things　that　didn’t　
exist—the　forest；　the　ocean　beach；　the　leafy　solitudes；　
the　magnanimous　hero。　No；　no；　no！　A　thousand　times　
no！—it　wouldn’t　do；　there　was　something　repulsive　in　
such　thoughts　at　present；　she　must　take　something　else；　
she　was　out　of　that　mood　at　present。　And　then　she　thought　
of　Mary；　the　thought　gave　her　confidence；　even　pleasure　
of　a　sad　sort；　as　if　the　triumph　of　Ralph　and　Mary　proved　
that　the　fault　of　her　failure　lay　with　herself　and　not　with　
life。　An　indistinct　idea　that　the　sight　of　Mary　might　be　of　
help；　bined　with　her　natural　trust　in　her；　suggested　a　

232　



Virginia　Woolf　

visit；　for；　surely；　her　liking　was　of　a　kind　that　implied　
liking　upon　Mary’s　side　also。　After　a　moment’s　hesitation　
she　decided；　although　she　seldom　acted　upon　impulse；　to　
act　upon　this　one；　and　turned　down　a　side　street　and　
found　Mary’s　door。　But　her　reception　was　not　encouraging；　
clearly　Mary　didn’t　want　to　see　her；　had　no　help　to　
impart；　and　the　halfformed　desire　to　confide　in　her　was　
quenched　immediately。　She　was　slightly　amused　at　her　
own　delusion；　looked　rather　absentminded；　and　swung　
her　gloves　to　and　fro；　as　if　doling　out　the　few　minutes　
accurately　before　she　could　say　goodby。　

Those　few　minutes　might　very　well　be　spent　in　asking　
for　information　as　to　the　exact　position　of　the　Suffrage　
Bill；　or　in　expounding　her　own　very　sensible　view　of　the　
situation。　But　there　was　a　tone　in　her　voice；　or　a　shade　in　
her　opinions；　or　a　swing　of　her　gloves　which　served　to　
irritate　Mary　Datchet；　whose　manner　became　increasingly　
direct；　abrupt；　and　even　antagonistic。　She　became　conscious　
of　a　wish　to　make　Katharine　realize　the　importance　
of　this　work；　which　she　discussed　so　coolly；　as　
though　she；　too；　had　sacrificed　what　Mary　herself　had　

sacrificed。　The　swinging　of　the　gloves　ceased；　and　
Katharine；　after　ten　minutes；　began　to　make　movements　
preliminary　to　departure。　At　the　sight　of　this；　Mary　was　
aware—she　was　abnormally　aware　of　things　tonight—of　
another　very　strong　desire；　Katharine　was　not　to　be　allowed　
to　go；　to　disappear　into　the　free；　happy　world　of　
irresponsible　individuals。　She　must　be　made　to　realize—　
to　feel。　

“I　don’t　quite　see；”　she　said；　as　if　Katharine　had　challenged　
her　explicitly；　“how；　things　being　as　they　are；　any　
one　can　help　trying；　at　least；　to　do　something。”　

“No。　But　how　are　things？”　

Mary　pressed　her　lips；　and　smiled　ironically；　she　had　
Katharine　at　her　mercy；　she　could；　if　she　liked；　discharge　
upon　her　head　wagonloads　of　revolting　proof　of　the　state　
of　things　ignored　by　the　casual；　the　amateur；　the　looker
on；　the　cynical　observer　of　life　at　a　distance。　And　yet　she　
hesitated。　As　usual；　when　she　found　herself　in　talk　with　
Katharine；　she　began　to　feel　rapid　alternations　of　opinion　
about　her；　arrows　of　sensation　striking　strangely　
through　the　envelope　of　personality；　which　shelters　us　so　

233　



Night　and　Day　

conveniently　from　our　fellows。　What　an　egoist；　how　aloof　
she　was！　And　yet；　not　in　her　words；　perhaps；　but　in　her　
voice；　in　her　face；　in　her　attitude；　there　were　signs　of　a　
soft　brooding　spirit；　of　a　sensibility　unblunted　and　profound；　
playing　over　her　thoughts　and　deeds；　and　investing　
her　manner　with　an　habitual　gentleness。　The　arguments　
and　phrases　of　Mr。　Clacton　fell　flat　against　such　
armor。　

“You’ll　be　married；　and　you’ll　have　other　things　to　think　
of；”　she　said　inconsequently；　and　with　an　accent　of　condescension。　
She　was　not　going　to　make　Katharine　understand　
in　a　second；　as　she　would；　all　she　herself　had　learnt　
at　the　cost　of　such　pain。　No。　Katharine　was　to　be　happy；　
Katharine　was　to　be　ignorant；　Mary　was　to　keep　this　knowledge　
of　the　impersonal　life　for　herself。　The　thought　of　
her　morning’s　renunciation　stung　her　conscience；　and　she　
tried　to　expand　once　more　into　that　impersonal　condition　
which　was　so　lofty　and　so　painless。　She　must　check　
this　desire　to　be　an　individual　again；　whose　wishes　were　
in　conflict　with　those　of　other　people。　She　repented　of　
her　bitterness。　

Katharine　now　renewed　her　signs　of　leavetaking；　she　
had　drawn　on　one　of　her　gloves；　and　looked　about　her　as　
if　in　search　of　some　trivial　saying　to　end　with。　Wasn’t　
there　some　picture；　or　clock；　or　chest　of　drawers　which　
might　be　singled　out　for　notice？　something　peaceable　
and　friendly　to　end　the　unfortable　interview？　The　
greenshaded　lamp　burnt　in　the　corner；　and　illumined　
books　and　pens　and　blottingpaper。　The　whole　aspect　of　
the　place　started　another　train　of　thought　and　struck　her　
as　enviably　free；　in　such　a　room　one　could　work—one　
could　have　a　life　of　one’s　own。　

“I　think　you’re　very　lucky；”　she　observed。　“I　envy　you；　
living　alone　and　having　your　own　things”—and　engaged　
in　this　exalted　way；　which　had　no　recognition　or　engage
mentring；　she　added　in　her　own　mind。　

Mary’s　lips　parted　slightly。　She　could　not　conceive　in　what　
respects　Katharine；　who　spoke　sincerely；　could　envy　her。　

“I　don’t　think　you’ve　got　any　reason　to　envy　me；”　she　
said。　

“Perhaps　one　always　envies　other　people；”　Katharine　
observed　vaguely。　

234　



Virginia　Woolf　

“Well；　but　you’ve　got　everything　that　any　one　can　want。”　

Katharine　remained　silent。　She　gazed　into　the　fire　quietly；　
and　without　a　trace　of　selfconsciousness。　The　hostility　
which　she　had　divined　in　Mary’s　tone　had　pletely　
disappeared；　and　she　forgot　that　she　had　been　upon　the　
point　of　going。　

“Well；　I　suppose　I　have；”　she　said　at　length。　“And　yet　I　
sometimes　think—”　She　paused；　she　did　not　know　how　
to　express　what　she　meant。　

“It　came　over　me　in　the　Tube　the　other　day；”　she　resumed；　
with　a　smile；　“what　is　it　that　makes　these　people　
go　one　way　rather　than　the　other？　It’s　not　love；　it’s　not　
reason；　I　think　it　must　be　some　idea。　Perhaps；　Mary；　our　
affections　are　the　shadow　of　an　idea。　Perhaps　there　isn’t　
any　such　thing　as　affection　in　itself…　。”　She　spoke　half
mockingly；　asking　her　question；　which　she　scarcely　troubled　
to　frame；　not　of　Mary；　or　of　any　one　in　particular。　

But　the　words　seemed　to　Mary　Datchet　shallow；　supercilious；　
coldblooded；　and　cynical　all　in　one。　All　her　natural　
instincts　were　roused　in　revolt　against　them。　

“I’m　the　opposite　way　of　thinking；　you　see；”　she　said。　

“Yes；　I　know　you　are；”　Katharine　replied；　looking　at　her　
as　if　now　she　were　about；　perhaps；　to　explain　something　
very　important。　

Mary　could　not　help　feeling　the　simplicity　and　good　
faith　that　lay　behind　Katharine’s　words。　

“I　think　affection　is　the　only　reality；”　she　said。　

“Yes；”　said　Katharine；　almost　sadly。　She　understood　that　
Mary　was　thinking　of　Ralph；　and　she　felt　it　impossible　to　
press　her　to　reveal　more　of　this　exalted　condition；　she　
could　only　respect　the　fact　that；　in　some　few　cases；　life　
arranged　itself　thus　satisfactorily　and　pass　on。　She　rose　
to　her　feet　accordingly。　But　Mary　exclaimed；　with　unmistakable　
earnestness；　that　she　must　not　go；　that　they　met　
so　seldom；　that　she　wanted　to　talk　to　her　so　much…　。　
Katharine　was　surprised　at　the　earnestness　with　which　
she　spoke。　It　seemed　to　her　that　there　could　be　no　indiscretion　
in　mentioning　Ralph　by　name。　

Seating　herself　“for　ten　minutes；”　she　said：　“By　the　
way；　Mr。　Denham　told　me　he　was　going　to　give　up　the　Bar　
and　live　in　the　country。　Has　he　gone？　He　was　beginning　
to　tell　me　about　it；　when　we　were　interrupted。”　

235　



Night　and　Day　

“He　thinks　of　it；”　said　Mary　briefly。　The　color　at　once　
came　to　her　face。　

“It　would　be　a　very　good　plan；”　said　Katharine　in　her　
decided　way。　

“You　think　so？”　

“Yes；　because　he　would　do　something　worth　while；　he　
would　write　a　book。　My　father　always　says　that　he’s　the　
most　remarkable　of　the　young　men　who　write　for　him。”　

Mary　bent　low　over　the　fire　and　stirred　the　coal　between　
the　bars　with　a　poker。　Katharine’s　mention　of　Ralph　
had　roused　within　her　an　almost　irresistible　desire　to　
explain　to　her　the　true　state　of　the　case　between　herself　
and　Ralph。　She　knew；　from　the　tone　of　her　voice；　that　in　
speaking　of　Ralph　she　had　no　desire　to　probe　Mary’s　secrets；　
or　to　insinuate　any　of　her　own。　Moreover；　she　liked　
Katharine；　she　trusted　her；　she　felt　a　respect　for　her。　The　
first　step　of　confidence　was　paratively　simple；　but　a　
further　confidence　had　revealed　itself；　as　Katharine　spoke；　
which　was　not　so　simple；　and　yet　it　impressed　itself　upon　
her　as　a　necessity；　she　must　tell　Katharine　what　it　was　
clear　that　she　had　no　conception　of—she　must　tell　

Katharine　that　Ralph　was　in　love　with　her。　

“I　don’t　know　what　he　means　to　do；”　she　said　hurriedly；　
seeking　time　against　the　pressure　of　her　own　conviction。　
“I’ve　not　seen　him　since　Christmas。”　

Katharine　reflected　that　this　was　odd；　perhaps；　after　
all；　she　had　misunderstood　the　position。　She　was　in　the　
habit　of　assuming；　however；　that　she　was　rather　unobservant　
of　the　finer　shades　of　feeling；　and　she　noted　her　
present　failure　as　another　proof　that　she　was　a　practical；　
abstractminded　person；　better　fitted　to　deal　with　figures　
than　with　the　feelings　of　men　and　women。　Anyhow；　
William　Rodney　would　say　so。　

“And　now—”　she　said。　

“Oh；　please　stay！”　Mary　exclaimed；　putting　out　her　hand　
to　stop　her。　Directly　Katharine　moved　she　felt；　inarticulately　
and　violently；　that　she　could　not　bear　to　let　her　go。　
If　Katharine　went；　her　only　chance　of　speaking　was　lost；　
her　only　chance　of　saying　something　tremendously　important　
was　lost。　Half　a　dozen　words　were　sufficient　to　
wake　Katharine’s　attention；　and　put　flight　and　further　
silence　beyond　her　power。　But　although　the　words　came　

236　



Virginia　Woolf　

to　her　lips；　her　throat　closed　upon　them　and　drove　them　
back。　After　all；　she　considered；　why　should　she　speak？　
Because　it　is　right；　her　instinct　told　her；　right　to　expose　
oneself　without　reservations　to　other　human　beings。　She　
flinched　from　the　thought。　It　asked　too　much　of　one　already　
stripped　bare。　Something　she　must　keep　of　her　own。　
But　if　she　did　keep　something　of　her　own？　Immediately　
she　figured　an　immured　life；　continuing　for　an　immense　
period；　the　same　feelings　living　for　ever；　neither　dwindling　
nor　changing　within　the　ring　of　a　thick　stone　wall。　
The　imagination　of　this　loneliness　frightened　her；　and　
yet　to　speak—to　lose　her　loneliness；　for　it　had　already　
bee　dear　to　her；　was　beyond　her　power。　

Her　hand　went　down　to　the　hem　of　Katharine’s　skirt；　
and；　fingering　a　line　of　fur；　she　bent　her　head　as　if　to　
examine　it。　

“I　like　this　fur；”　she　said；　“I　like　your　clot