[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第37部分

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meal　passed　in　quiet；　wellcontrolled　talk　about　indifferent　
things。　Music　was　not　a　subject　about　which　she　knew　
anything；　but　she　liked　him　to　tell　her　things；　and　could；　
she　mused；　as　he　talked；　fancy　the　evenings　of　married　
life　spent　thus；　over　the　fire；　spent　thus；　or　with　a　book；　
perhaps；　for　then　she　would　have　time　to　read　her　books；　
and　to　grasp　firmly　with　every　muscle　of　her　unused　mind　
what　she　longed　to　know。　The　atmosphere　was　very　free。　
Suddenly　William　broke　off。　She　looked　up　apprehensively；　
brushing　aside　these　thoughts　with　annoyance。　

“Where　should　I　address　a　letter　to　Cassandra？”　he　asked　
her。　It　was　obvious　again　that　William　had　some　meaning　
or　other　tonight；　or　was　in　some　mood。　“We’ve　struck　up　
a　friendship；”　he　added。　

“She’s　at　home；　I　think；”　Katharine　replied。　

“They　keep　her　too　much　at　home；”　said　William。　“Why　
don’t　you　ask　her　to　stay　with　you；　and　let　her　hear　a　
little　good　music？　I’ll　just　finish　what　I　was　saying；　if　you　
don’t　mind；　because　I’m　particularly　anxious　that　she　
should　hear　tomorrow。”　

Katharine　sank　back　in　her　chair；　and　Rodney　took　the　
paper　on　his　knees；　and　went　on　with　his　sentence。　“Style；　
you　know；　is　what　we　tend　to　neglect—”；　but　he　was　far　
more　conscious　of　Katharine’s　eye　upon　him　than　of　what　
he　was　saying　about　style。　He　knew　that　she　was　looking　
at　him；　but　whether　with　irritation　or　indifference　he　
could　not　guess。　

In　truth；　she　had　fallen　sufficiently　into　his　trap　to　feel　
unfortably　roused　and　disturbed　and　unable　to　proceed　
on　the　lines　laid　down　for　herself。　This　indifferent；　
if　not　hostile；　attitude　on　William’s　part　made　it　impos


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Virginia　Woolf　

sible　to　break　off　without　animosity；　largely　and　pletely。　
Infinitely　preferable　was　Mary’s　state；　she　thought；　
where　there　was　a　simple　thing　to　do　and　one　did　it。　In　
fact；　she　could　not　help　supposing　that　some　littleness　
of　nature　had　a　part　in　all　the　refinements；　reserves；　and　
subtleties　of　feeling　for　which　her　friends　and　family　were　
so　distinguished。　For　example；　although　she　liked　
Cassandra　well　enough；　her　fantastic　method　of　life　struck　
her　as　purely　frivolous；　now　it　was　socialism；　now　it　was　
silkworms；　now　it　was　music—which　last　she　supposed　
was　the　cause　of　William’s　sudden　interest　in　her。　Never　
before　had　William　wasted　the　minutes　of　her　presence　in　
writing　his　letters。　With　a　curious　sense　of　light　opening　
where　all；　hitherto；　had　been　opaque；　it　dawned　upon　
her　that；　after　all；　possibly；　yes；　probably；　nay；　certainly；　
the　devotion　which　she　had　almost　wearily　taken　for　
granted　existed　in　a　much　slighter　degree　than　she　had　
suspected；　or　existed　no　longer。　She　looked　at　him　attentively　
as　if　this　discovery　of　hers　must　show　traces　in　his　
face。　Never　had　she　seen　so　much　to　respect　in　his　appearance；　
so　much　that　attracted　her　by　its　sensitiveness　

and　intelligence；　although　she　saw　these　qualities　as　if　
they　were　those　one　responds　to；　dumbly；　in　the　face　of　a　
stranger。　The　head　bent　over　the　paper；　thoughtful　as　
usual；　had　now　a　posure　which　seemed　somehow　to　
place　it　at　a　distance；　like　a　face　seen　talking　to　some　
one　else　behind　glass。　

He　wrote　on；　without　raising　his　eyes。　She　would　have　
spoken；　but　could　not　bring　herself　to　ask　him　for　signs　
of　affection　which　she　had　no　right　to　claim。　The　conviction　
that　he　was　thus　strange　to　her　filled　her　with　despondency；　
and　illustrated　quite　beyond　doubt　the　infinite　
loneliness　of　human　beings。　She　had　never　felt　the　
truth　of　this　so　strongly　before。　She　looked　away　into　the　
fire；　it　seemed　to　her　that　even　physically　they　were　now　
scarcely　within　speaking　distance；　and　spiritually　there　
was　certainly　no　human　being　with　whom　she　could　claim　
radeship；　no　dream　that　satisfied　her　as　she　was　used　
to　be　satisfied；　nothing　remained　in　whose　reality　she　
could　believe；　save　those　abstract　ideas—figures；　laws；　
stars；　facts；　which　she　could　hardly　hold　to　for　lack　of　
knowledge　and　a　kind　of　shame。　

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Night　and　Day　

When　Rodney　owned　to　himself　the　folly　of　this　prolonged　
silence；　and　the　meanness　of　such　devices；　and　
looked　up　ready　to　seek　some　excuse　for　a　good　laugh；　or　
opening　for　a　confession；　he　was　disconcerted　by　what　
he　saw。　Katharine　seemed　equally　oblivious　of　what　was　
bad　or　of　what　was　good　in　him。　Her　expression　suggested　
concentration　upon　something　entirely　remote　from　
her　surroundings。　The　carelessness　of　her　attitude　seemed　
to　him　rather　masculine　than　feminine。　His　impulse　to　
break　up　the　constraint　was　chilled；　and　once　more　the　
exasperating　sense　of　his　own　impotency　returned　to　him。　
He　could　not　help　contrasting　Katharine　with　his　vision　
of　the　engaging；　whimsical　Cassandra；　Katharine　undemonstrative；　
inconsiderate；　silent；　and　yet　so　notable　that　
he　could　never　do　without　her　good　opinion。　

She　veered　round　upon　him　a　moment　later；　as　if；　when　
her　train　of　thought　was　ended；　she　became　aware　of　his　
presence。　

“Have　you　finished　your　letter？”　she　asked。　He　thought　
he　heard　faint　amusement　in　her　tone；　but　not　a　trace　of　
jealousy。　

“No；　I’m　not　going　to　write　any　more　tonight；”　he　said。　
“I’m　not　in　the　mood　for　it　for　some　reason。　I　can’t　say　
what　I　want　to　say。”　

“Cassandra　won’t　know　if　it’s　well　written　or　badly　written；”　
Katharine　remarked。　

“I’m　not　so　sure　about　that。　I　should　say　she　has　a　
good　deal　of　literary　feeling。”　

“Perhaps；”　said　Katharine　indifferently。　“You’ve　been　
neglecting　my　education　lately；　by　the　way。　I　wish　you’d　
read　something。　Let　me　choose　a　book。”　So　speaking；　she　
went　across　to　his　bookshelves　and　began　looking　in　a　
desultory　way　among　his　books。　Anything；　she　thought；　
was　better　than　bickering　or　the　strange　silence　which　
drove　home　to　her　the　distance　between　them。　As　she　
pulled　one　book　forward　and　then　another　she　thought　
ironically　of　her　own　certainty　not　an　hour　ago；　how　it　
had　vanished　in　a　moment；　how　she　was　merely　marking　
time　as　best　she　could；　not　knowing　in　the　least　where　
they　stood；　what　they　felt；　or　whether　William　loved　her　
or　not。　More　and　more　the　condition　of　Mary’s　mind　seemed　
to　her　wonderful　and　enviable—if；　indeed；　it　could　be　

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quite　as　she　figured　it—if；　indeed；　simplicity　existed　for　
any　one　of　the　daughters　of　women。　

“Swift；”　she　said；　at　last；　taking　out　a　volume　at　haphazard　
to　settle　this　question　at　least。　“Let　us　have　some　
Swift。”　

Rodney　took　the　book；　held　it　in　front　of　him；　inserted　
one　finger　between　the　pages；　but　said　nothing。　His　face　
wore　a　queer　expression　of　deliberation；　as　if　he　were　
weighing　one　thing　with　another；　and　would　not　say　anything　
until　his　mind　were　made　up。　

Katharine；　taking　her　chair　beside　him；　noted　his　silence　
and　looked　at　him　with　sudden　apprehension。　What　
she　hoped　or　feared；　she　could　not　have　said；　a　most　
irrational　and　indefensible　desire　for　some　assurance　of　
his　affection　was；　perhaps；　uppermost　in　her　mind。　Peevishness；　
plaints；　exacting　crossexamination　she　was　
used　to；　but　this　attitude　of　posed　quiet；　which　
seemed　to　e　from　the　consciousness　of　power　within；　
puzzled　her。　She　did　not　know　what　was　going　to　happen　
next。　

At　last　William　spoke。　

“I　think　it’s　a　little　odd；　don’t　you？”　he　said；　in　a　voice　
of　detached　reflection。　“Most　people；　I　mean；　would　be　
seriously　upset　if　their　marriage　was　put　off　for　six　months　
or　so。　But　we　aren’t；　now　how　do　you　account　for　that？”　

She　looked　at　him　and　observed　his　judicial　attitude　as　
of　one　holding　far　aloof　from　emotion。　

“I　attribute　it；”　he　went　on；　without　waiting　for　her　to　
answer；　“to　the　fact　that　neither　of　us　is　in　the　least　
romantic　about　the　other。　That　may　be　partly；　no　doubt；　
because　we’ve　known　each　other　so　long；　but　I’m　inclined　
to　think　there’s　more　in　it　than　that。　There’s　something　
temperamental。　I　think　you’re　a　trifle　cold；　and　I　
suspect　I’m　a　trifle　selfabsorbed。　If　that　were　so　it　goes　
a　long　way　to　explaining　our　odd　lack　of　illusion　about　
each　other。　I’m　not　saying　that　the　most　satisfactory　
marriages　aren’t　founded　upon　this　sort　of　understanding。　
But　certainly　it　struck　me　as　odd　this　morning；　when　
Wilson　told　me；　how　little　upset　I　felt。　By　the　way；　you’re　
sure　we　haven’t　mitted　ourselves　to　that　house？”　

“I’ve　kept　the　letters；　and　I’ll　go　through　them　tomorrow；　
but　I’m　certain　we’re　on　the　safe　side。”　

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Night　and　Day　

“Thanks。　As　to　the　psychological　problem；”　he　continued；　
as　if　the　question　interested　him　in　a　detached　way；　
“there’s　no　doubt；　I　think；　that　either　of　us　is　capable　of　
feeling　what；　for　reasons　of　simplicity；　I　call　romance　for　
a　third　person—at　least；　I’ve　little　doubt　in　my　own　case。”　

It　was；　perhaps；　the　first　time　in　all　her　knowledge　of　
him　that　Katharine　had　known　William　enter　thus　deliberately　
and　without　sign　of　emotion　upon　a　statement　of　
his　own　feelings。　He　was　wont　to　discourage　such　intimate　
discussions　by　a　little　laugh　or　turn　of　the　conversation；　
as　much　as　to　say　that　men；　or　men　of　the　world；　
find　such　topics　a　little　silly；　or　in　doubtful　taste。　His　
obvious　wish　to　explain　something　puzzled　her；　interested　
her；　and　neutralized　the　wound　to　her　vanity。　For　
some　reason；　too；　she　felt　more　at　ease　with　him　than　
usual；　or　her　ease　was　more　the　ease　of　equality—she　
could　not　stop　to　think　of　that　at　the　moment　though。　
His　remarks　interested　her　too　much　for　the　light　that　
they　threw　upon　certain　problems　of　her　own。　

“What　is　this　romance？”　she　mused。　

“Ah；　that’s　the　question。　I’ve　never　e　across　a　defi


nition　that　satisfied　me；　though　there　are　some　very　good　
ones”—he　glanced　in　the　direction　of　his　books。　

“It’s　not　altogether　knowing　the　other　person；　perhaps—　
it’s　ignorance；”　she　hazarded。　

“Some　authorities　say　it’s　a　question　of　distance—romance　
in　literature；　that　is—”　

“Possibly；　in　the　case　of　art。　But　in　the　case　of　people　it　
may　be—”　she　hesitated。　

“Have　you　no　personal　experience　of　it？”　he　asked；　letting　
his　eyes　rest　upon　her　swiftly　for　a　moment。　

“I　believe　it’s　influenced　me　enormously；”　she　said；　in　
the　tone　of　one　absorbed　by　the　possibilities　of　some　
view　just　presented　to　them；　“but　in　my　life　there’s　so　
little　scope　for　it；”　she　added。　She　reviewed　her　daily　
task；　the　perpetual　demands　upon　her　for　good　sense；　
selfcontrol；　and　accuracy　in　a　house　containing　a　romantic　
mother。　Ah；　but　her　romance　wasn’t　that　romance。　
It　was　a　desire；　an　echo；　a　sound；　she　could　drape　it　in　
color；　see　it　in　form；　hear　it　in　music；　but　not　in　words；　
no；　never　in　words。　She　sighed；　teased　by　desires　so　incoherent；　
so　inmunicable。　

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Virginia　Woolf　

“But　isn’t　it　curious；”　William　resumed；　“that　you　should　
neither　feel　it　for　me；　nor　I　for　you？”　

Katharine　agreed　that　it　was　curious—very；　but　even　
more　curious　to　her　was　the　fact　that　she　was　discussing　
the　question　with　William。　It　revealed　possibilities　which　
opened　a　prospect　of　a　new　relationship　altogether。　Somehow　
it　seemed　to　her　that　he　was　helping　her　to　understand　
what　she　had　never　understood；　and　in　her　gratitude　
she　was　conscious　of　a　most　sisterly　desire　to　help　
him；　too—sisterly；　save　for　one　pang；　not　quite　to　be　
subdued；　that　for　him　she　was　without　romance。　

“I　think　you　might　be　very　happy　with　some　one　you　
loved　in　that　way；”　she　said。　

“You　assume　that　romance　survives　a　closer　knowledge　
of　the　person　one　loves？”　

He　asked　the　question　formally；　to　protect　himself　from　
the　sort　of　personality　which　he　dreaded。　The　whole　situation　
needed　the　most　careful　management　lest　it　should　
degenerate　into　some　degrading　and　disturbing　exhibition　
such　as　the　scene；　which　he　could　never　think　of　
without　shame；　upon　the　heath　among　the　dead　leaves。　

And　yet　each　sentence　brought　him　relief。　He　was　ing　
to　understand　something　or　other　about　his　own　desires　
hitherto　undefined　by　him；　the　source　of　his　difficulty　
with　Katharine。　The　wish　to　hurt　her；　which　had　
urged　him　to　begin；　had　pletely　left　him；　and　he　felt　
that　it　was　only　Katharine　now　who　could　help　him　to　be　
sure。　He　must　take　his　time。　There　were　so　many　things　
that　he　could　not　say　without　the　greatest　difficulty—　
that　name；　for　example；　Cassandra。　Nor　could　he　move　
his　eyes　from　a　certain　spot；　a　fiery　glen　surrounded　by　
high　mountains；　in　the　heart　of　the　coals。　He　waited　in　
suspense　for　Katharine　to　continue。　She　had　said　that　he　
might　be　very　happy　with　some　one　he　loved　in　that　way。　

“I　don’t　see　why　it　shouldn’t　last　with　you；”　she　resumed。　
“I　can　imagine　a　certain　sort　of　person—”　she　
paused；　she　was　aware　that　he　was　listening　with　the　
greatest　intentness；　and　that　his　formality　was　merely　
the　cover　for　an　extreme　anxiety　of　some　sort。　There　was　
some　person　then—some　woman—who　could　it　be？　
Cassandra？　Ah；　possibly—　

“A　person；”　she　added；　speaking　in　the　most　matterof


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Night　and　Day　

fact　tone　she　could　mand；　“like　Cassandra　Otway；　for　
instance。　Cassandra　is　the　most　interesting　of　the　
Otways—with　the　exception　of　Henry。　Even　so；　I　like　
Cassandra　better。　She　has　more　than　mere　cleverness。　She　
is　a　character—a　person　by　herself。”　

“Those　dreadful　insects！”　burst　from　William；　with　a　
nervous　laugh；　and　a　little　spasm　went　through　him　as　
Katharine　noticed。　It　was　Cassandra　then。　Automatically　
and　dully　she　replied；　“You　could　insist　that　she　confined　
herself　to—to—something　else…　。　But　she　cares　for　
music；　I　believe　she　writes　poetry；　and　there　can　be　no　
doubt　that　she　has　a　peculiar　charm—”　

She　ceased；　as　if　defining　to　herself　this　peculiar　charm。　
After　a　moment’s　silence　William　jerked　out：　

“I　thought　her　affectionate？”　

“Extremely　affectionate。　She　worships　Henry。　When　you　
think　what　a　house　that　is—Uncle　Francis　always　in　one　
mood　or　another—”　

“Dear；　dear；　dear；”　William　muttered。　

“And　you　have　so　much　in　mon。”　

“My　dear　Katharine！”　William　exclaimed；　flinging　him


self　back　in　his　chair；　and　uprooting　his　eyes　from　the　
spot　in　the　fire。　“I　really　don’t　know　what　we’re　talking　
about…　。　I　assure　you…　。”　

He　was　covered　with　an　extreme　confusion。　

He　withdrew　the　finger　that　was　still　thrust　between　
the　pages　of　Gulliver；　opened　the　book；　and　ran　his　eye　
down　the　list　of　chapters；　as　though　he　were　about　to　
select　the　one　most　suitable　for　reading　aloud。　As　
Katharine　watched　him；　she　was　seized　with　preliminary　
symptoms　of　his　own　panic。　At　the　same　time　she　was　
convinced　that；　should　he　find　the　right　page；　take　out　
his　spectacles；　clear　his　throat；　and　open　his　lips；　a　chance　
that　would　never　e　again　in　all　their　lives　would　be　
lost　to　them　both。　

“We’re　talking　about　things　that　interest　us　both　very　
much；”　she　said。　“Shan’t　we　go　on　talking；　and　leave　
Swift　for　another　time？　I　don’t　feel　in　the　mood　for　Swift；　
and　it’s　a　pity　to　read　any　one