[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第41部分

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could　envy　them；　but　in　her　case　the　questions　became　
phantoms　directly　she　tried　seriously　to　find　an　answer；　
which　proved　that　the　traditional　answer　would　be　of　no　
use　to　her　individually。　Yet　it　had　served　so　many　people；　
she　thought；　glancing　at　the　rows　of　houses　on　either　
side　of　her；　where　families；　whose　ines　must　be　between　
a　thousand　and　fifteenhundred　a　year　lived；　and　
kept；　perhaps；　three　servants；　and　draped　their　windows　
with　curtains　which　were　always　thick　and　generally　dirty；　
and　must；　she　thought；　since　you　could　only　see　a　look
ingglass　gleaming　above　a　sideboard　on　which　a　dish　of　
apples　was　set；　keep　the　room　inside　very　dark。　But　she　

turned　her　head　away；　observing　that　this　was　not　a　
method　of　thinking　the　matter　out。　

The　only　truth　which　she　could　discover　was　the　truth　
of　what　she　herself　felt—a　frail　beam　when　pared　
with　the　broad　illumination　shed　by　the　eyes　of　all　the　
people　who　are　in　agreement　to　see　together；　but　having　
rejected　the　visionary　voices；　she　had　no　choice　but　to　
make　this　her　guide　through　the　dark　masses　which　confronted　
her。　She　tried　to　follow　her　beam；　with　an　expression　
upon　her　face　which　would　have　made　any　passerby　
think　her　reprehensibly　and　almost　ridiculously　detached　
from　the　surrounding　scene。　One　would　have　felt　alarmed　
lest　this　young　and　striking　woman　were　about　to　do　
something　eccentric。　But　her　beauty　saved　her　from　the　
worst　fate　that　can　befall　a　pedestrian；　people　looked　at　
her；　but　they　did　not　laugh。　To　seek　a　true　feeling　among　
the　chaos　of　the　unfeelings　or　halffeelings　of　life；　to　
recognize　it　when　found；　and　to　accept　the　consequences　
of　the　discovery；　draws　lines　upon　the　smoothest　brow；　
while　it　quickens　the　light　of　the　eyes；　it　is　a　pursuit　
which　is　alternately　bewildering；　debasing；　and　exalting；　

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Night　and　Day　

and；　as　Katharine　speedily　found；　her　discoveries　gave　her　
equal　cause　for　surprise；　shame；　and　intense　anxiety。　Much　
depended；　as　usual；　upon　the　interpretation　of　the　word　
love；　which　word　came　up　again　and　again；　whether　she　
considered　Rodney；　Denham；　Mary　Datchet；　or　herself；　and　
in　each　case　it　seemed　to　stand　for　something　different；　
and　yet　for　something　unmistakable　and　something　not　to　
be　passed　by。　For　the　more　she　looked　into　the　confusion　
of　lives　which；　instead　of　running　parallel；　had　suddenly　
intersected　each　other；　the　more　distinctly　she　seemed　to　
convince　herself　that　there　was　no　other　light　on　them　
than　was　shed　by　this　strange　illumination；　and　no　other　
path　save　the　one　upon　which　it　threw　its　beams。　Her　
blindness　in　the　case　of　Rodney；　her　attempt　to　match　his　
true　feeling　with　her　false　feeling；　was　a　failure　never　to　
be　sufficiently　condemned；　indeed；　she　could　only　pay　it　
the　tribute　of　leaving　it　a　black　and　naked　landmark　unburied　
by　attempt　at　oblivion　or　excuse。　

With　this　to　humiliate　there　was　much　to　exalt。　She　
thought　of　three　different　scenes；　she　thought　of　Mary　
sitting　upright　and　saying；　“I’m　in　love—I’m　in　love”；　

she　thought　of　Rodney　losing　his　selfconsciousness　among　
the　dead　leaves；　and　speaking　with　the　abandonment　of　
a　child；　she　thought　of　Denham　leaning　upon　the　stone　
parapet　and　talking　to　the　distant　sky；　so　that　she　thought　
him　mad。　Her　mind；　passing　from　Mary　to　Denham；　from　
William　to　Cassandra；　and　from　Denham　to　herself—if；　as　
she　rather　doubted；　Denham’s　state　of　mind　was　connected　
with　herself—seemed　to　be　tracing　out　the　lines　
of　some　symmetrical　pattern；　some　arrangement　of　life；　
which　invested；　if　not　herself；　at　least　the　others；　not　
only　with　interest；　but　with　a　kind　of　tragic　beauty。　She　
had　a　fantastic　picture　of　them　upholding　splendid　palaces　
upon　their　bent　backs。　They　were　the　lanternbearers；　
whose　lights；　scattered　among　the　crowd；　wove　a　
pattern；　dissolving；　joining；　meeting　again　in　bination。　
Half　forming　such　conceptions　as　these　in　her　rapid　
walk　along　the　dreary　streets　of　South　Kensington；　she　
determined　that；　whatever　else　might　be　obscure；　she　
must　further　the　objects　of　Mary；　Denham；　William；　and　
Cassandra。　The　way　was　not　apparent。　No　course　of　action　
seemed　to　her　indubitably　right。　All　she　achieved　by　

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her　thinking　was　the　conviction　that；　in　such　a　cause；　no　
risk　was　too　great；　and　that；　far　from　making　any　rules　for　
herself　or　others；　she　would　let　difficulties　accumulate　
unsolved；　situations　widen　their　jaws　unsatiated；　while　she　
maintained　a　position　of　absolute　and　fearless　independence。　
So　she　could　best　serve　the　people　who　loved。　

Read　in　the　light　of　this　exaltation；　there　was　a　new　
meaning　in　the　words　which　her　mother　had　penciled　
upon　the　card　attached　to　the　bunch　of　anemones。　The　
door　of　the　house　in　the　Cromwell　Road　opened；　gloomy　
vistas　of　passage　and　staircase　were　revealed；　such　light　
as　there　was　seemed　to　be　concentrated　upon　a　silver　
salver　of　visitingcards；　whose　black　borders　suggested　
that　the　widow’s　friends　had　all　suffered　the　same　bereavement。　
The　parlormaid　could　hardly　be　expected　to　
fathom　the　meaning　of　the　grave　tone　in　which　the　young　
lady　proffered　the　flowers；　with　Mrs。　Hilbery’s　love；　and　
the　door　shut　upon　the　offering。　

The　sight　of　a　face；　the　slam　of　a　door；　are　both　rather　
destructive　of　exaltation　in　the　abstract；　and；　as　she　
walked　back　to　Chelsea；　Katharine　had　her　doubts　whether　

anything　would　e　of　her　resolves。　If　you　cannot　make　
sure　of　people；　however；　you　can　hold　fairly　fast　to　figures；　
and　in　some　way　or　other　her　thought　about　such　
problems　as　she　was　wont　to　consider　worked　in　happily　
with　her　mood　as　to　her　friends’　lives。　She　reached　home　
rather　late　for　tea。　

On　the　ancient　Dutch　chest　in　the　hall　she　perceived　
one　or　two　hats；　coats；　and　walkingsticks；　and　the　sound　
of　voices　reached　her　as　she　stood　outside　the　drawing
room　door。　Her　mother　gave　a　little　cry　as　she　came　in；　a　
cry　which　conveyed　to　Katharine　the　fact　that　she　was　
late；　that　the　teacups　and　milkjugs　were　in　a　conspiracy　
of　disobedience；　and　that　she　must　immediately　take　her　
place　at　the　head　of　the　table　and　pour　out　tea　for　the　
guests。　Augustus　Pelham；　the　diarist；　liked　a　calm　atmosphere　
in　which　to　tell　his　stories；　he　liked　attention；　he　
liked　to　elicit　little　facts；　little　stories；　about　the　past　
and　the　great　dead；　from　such　distinguished　characters　
as　Mrs。　Hilbery　for　the　nourishment　of　his　diary；　for　whose　
sake　he　frequented　teatables　and　ate　yearly　an　enormous　
quantity　of　buttered　toast。　He；　therefore；　weled　

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Night　and　Day　

Katharine　with　relief；　and　she　had　merely　to　shake　hands　
with　Rodney　and　to　greet　the　American　lady　who　had　
e　to　be　shown　the　relics；　before　the　talk　started　again　
on　the　broad　lines　of　reminiscence　and　discussion　which　
were　familiar　to　her。　

Yet；　even　with　this　thick　veil　between　them；　she　could　
not　help　looking　at　Rodney；　as　if　she　could　detect　what　
had　happened　to　him　since　they　met。　It　was　in　vain。　His　
clothes；　even　the　white　slip；　the　pearl　in　his　tie；　seemed　
to　intercept　her　quick　glance；　and　to　proclaim　the　futility　
of　such　inquiries　of　a　discreet；　urbane　gentleman；　who　
balanced　his　cup　of　tea　and　poised　a　slice　of　bread　and　
butter　on　the　edge　of　the　saucer。　He　would　not　meet　her　
eye；　but　that　could　be　accounted　for　by　his　activity　in　
serving　and　helping；　and　the　polite　alacrity　with　which　
he　was　answering　the　questions　of　the　American　visitor。　

It　was　certainly　a　sight　to　daunt　any　one　ing　in　
with　a　head　full　of　theories　about　love。　The　voices　of　the　
invisible　questioners　were　reinforced　by　the　scene　round　
the　table；　and　sounded　with　a　tremendous　selfconfidence；　
as　if　they　had　behind　them　the　mon　sense　of　twenty　

generations；　together　with　the　immediate　approval　of　Mr。　
Augustus　Pelham；　Mrs。　Vermont　Bankes；　William　Rodney；　
and；　possibly；　Mrs。　Hilbery　herself。　Katharine　set　her　teeth；　
not　entirely　in　the　metaphorical　sense；　for　her　hand；　obeying　
the　impulse　towards　definite　action；　laid　firmly　upon　
the　table　beside　her　an　envelope　which　she　had　been　
grasping　all　this　time　in　plete　forgetfulness。　The　address　
was　uppermost；　and　a　moment　later　she　saw　William’s　
eye　rest　upon　it　as　he　rose　to　fulfil　some　duty　with　a　
plate。　His　expression　instantly　changed。　He　did　what　he　
was　on　the　point　of　doing；　and　then　looked　at　Katharine　
with　a　look　which　revealed　enough　of　his　confusion　to　
show　her　that　he　was　not　entirely　represented　by　his　appearance。　
In　a　minute　or　two　he　proved　himself　at　a　loss　
with　Mrs。　Vermont　Bankes；　and　Mrs。　Hilbery；　aware　of　the　
silence　with　her　usual　quickness；　suggested　that；　perhaps；　
it　was　now　time　that　Mrs。　Bankes　should　be　shown　
“our　things。”　

Katharine　accordingly　rose；　and　led　the　way　to　the　little　
inner　room　with　the　pictures　and　the　books。　Mrs。　Bankes　
and　Rodney　followed　her。　

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Virginia　Woolf　

She　turned　on　the　lights；　and　began　directly　in　her　low；　
pleasant　voice：　“This　table　is　my　grandfather’s　writing
table。　Most　of　the　later　poems　were　written　at　it。　And　
this　is　his　pen—the　last　pen　he　ever　used。”　She　took　it　in　
her　hand　and　paused　for　the　right　number　of　seconds。　
“Here；”　she　continued；　“is　the　original　manuscript　of　the　
‘Ode　to　Winter。’　The　early　manuscripts　are　far　less　corrected　
than　the　later　ones；　as　you　will　see　directly…　。　
Oh；　do　take　it　yourself；”　she　added；　as　Mrs。　Bankes　asked；　
in　an　awestruck　tone　of　voice；　for　that　privilege；　and　
began　a　preliminary　unbuttoning　of　her　white　kid　gloves。　

“You　are　wonderfully　like　your　grandfather；　Miss　Hilbery；”　
the　American　lady　observed；　gazing　from　Katharine　to　
the　portrait；　“especially　about　the　eyes。　e；　now；　I　
expect　she　writes　poetry　herself；　doesn’t　she？”　she　asked　
in　a　jocular　tone；　turning　to　William。　“Quite　one’s　ideal　of　
a　poet；　is　it　not；　Mr。　Rodney？　I　cannot　tell　you　what　a　
privilege　I　feel　it　to　be　standing　just　here　with　the　poet’s　
granddaughter。　You　must　know　we　think　a　great　deal　of　
your　grandfather　in　America；　Miss　Hilbery。　We　have　societies　
for　reading　him　aloud。　What！　His　very　own　slip


pers！”　Laying　aside　the　manuscript；　she　hastily　grasped　
the　old　shoes；　and　remained　for　a　moment　dumb　in　contemplation　
of　them。　

While　Katharine　went　on　steadily　with　her　duties　as　
showwoman；　Rodney　examined　intently　a　row　of　little　
drawings　which　he　knew　by　heart　already。　His　disordered　
state　of　mind　made　it　necessary　for　him　to　take　advantage　
of　these　little　respites；　as　if　he　had　been　out　in　a　
high　wind　and　must　straighten　his　dress　in　the　first　shelter　
he　reached。　His　calm　was　only　superficial；　as　he　knew　
too　well；　it　did　not　exist　much　below　the　surface　of　tie；　
waistcoat；　and　white　slip。　

On　getting　out　of　bed　that　morning　he　had　fully　made　
up　his　mind　to　ignore　what　had　been　said　the　night　before；　
he　had　been　convinced；　by　the　sight　of　Denham；　
that　his　love　for　Katharine　was　passionate；　and　when　he　
addressed　her　early　that　morning　on　the　telephone；　he　
had　meant　his　cheerful　but　authoritative　tones　to　convey　
to　her　the　fact　that；　after　a　night　of　madness；　they　were　
as　indissolubly　engaged　as　ever。　But　when　he　reached　his　
office　his　torments　began。　He　found　a　letter　from　Cassandra　

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Night　and　Day　

waiting　for　him。　She　had　read　his　play；　and　had　taken　the　
very　first　opportunity　to　write　and　tell　him　what　she　
thought　of　it。　She　knew；　she　wrote；　that　her　praise　meant　
absolutely　nothing；　but　still；　she　had　sat　up　all　night；　
she　thought　this；　that；　and　the　other；　she　was　full　of　
enthusiasm　most　elaborately　scratched　out　in　places；　but　
enough　was　written　plain　to　gratify　William’s　vanity　exceedingly。　
She　was　quite　intelligent　enough　to　say　the　
right　things；　or；　even　more　charmingly；　to　hint　at　them。　
In　other　ways；　too；　it　was　a　very　charming　letter。　She　
told　him　about　her　music；　and　about　a　Suffrage　meeting　
to　which　Henry　had　taken　her；　and　she　asserted；　half　
seriously；　that　she　had　learnt　the　Greek　alphabet；　and　
found　it　“fascinating。”　The　word　was　underlined。　Had　she　
laughed　when　she　drew　that　line？　Was　she　ever　serious？　
Didn’t　the　letter　show　the　most　engaging　pound　of　
enthusiasm　and　spirit　and　whimsicality；　all　tapering　into　
a　flame　of　girlish　freakishness；　which　flitted；　for　the　rest　
of　the　morning；　as　a　willo’thewisp；　across　Rodney’s　
landscape。　He　could　not　resist　beginning　an　answer　to　
her　there　and　then。　He　found　it　particularly　delightful　to　

shape　a　style　which　should　express　the　bowing　and　curtsying；　
advancing　and　retreating；　which　are　characteristic　
of　one　of　the　many　million　partnerships　of　men　and　
women。　Katharine　never　trod　that　particular　measure；　he　
could　not　help　reflecting；　Katharine—Cassandra；　
Cassandra—Katharine—they　alternated　in　his　consciousness　
all　day　long。　It　was　all　very　well　to　dress　oneself　
carefully；　pose　one’s　face；　and　start　off　punctually　at　
halfpast　four　to　a　teaparty　in　Cheyne　Walk；　but　Heaven　
only　knew　what　would　e　of　it　all；　and　when　Katharine；　
after　sitting　silent　with　her　usual　immobility；　wantonly　
drew　from　her　pocket　and　slapped　down　on　the　table　
beneath　his　eyes　a　letter　addressed　to　Cassandra　herself；　
his　posure　deserted　him。　What　did　she　mean　by　her　
behavior？　

He　looked　up　sharply　from　his　row　of　little　pictures。　
Katharine　was　disposing　of　the　American　lady　in　far　too　
arbitrary　a　fashion。　Surely　the　victim　herself　must　see　
how　foolish　her　enthusiasms　appeared　in　the　eyes　of　the　
poet’s　granddaughter。　Katharine　never　made　any　attempt　
to　spare　people’s　feelings；　he　reflected；　and；　being　him


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self　very　sensitive　to　all　shades　of　fort　and　disfort；　
he　cut　short　the　auctioneer’s　catalog；　which　Katharine　
was　reeling　off　more　and　more　absentmindedly；　and　took　
Mrs。　Vermont　Bankes；　with　a　queer　sense　of　fellowship　in　
suffering；　under　his　own　protection。　

But　within　a　few　minutes　the　American　lady　had　pleted　
her　inspection；　and　inclining　her　head　in　a　little　
nod　of　reverential　farewell　to　the　poet　and　his　shoes；　she　
was　escorted　downstairs　by　Rodney。　Katharine　stayed　by　
herself　in　the　little　room。　The　ceremony　of　ancestorworship　
had　been　more　than　usually　oppressive　to　her。　Moreover；　
the　room　was　being　crowded　beyond　the　bounds　
of　order。　Only　that　morning　a　heavily　insured　proofsheet　
had　reached　them　from　a　collector　in　Australia；　which　
recorded　a　change　of　the　poet’s　mind　about　a　very　famous　
phrase；　and；　therefore；　had　claims　to　the　honor　of　
glazing　and　framing。　But　was　there　room　for　it？　Must　it　
be　hung　on　the　staircase；　or　should　some　other　relic　give　
place　to　do　it　honor？　Feeling　unable　to　decide　the　question；　
Katharine　glanced　at　the　portrait　of　her　grandfather；　
as　if　to　ask　his　opinion。　The　artist　who　had　painted　

it　was　now　out　of　fashion；　and　by　dint　of　showing　it　to　
visitors；　Katharine　had　almost　ceased　to　see　anything　
but　a　glow　of　faintly　pleasing　pink　and　brown　tints；　enclosed　
within　a　circular　scroll　of　gilt　laurelleaves。　The　
young　man　who　was　her　grandfather　looked　vaguely　over　
her　head。　The　sens