[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第51部分

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“Mary；”　said　Ralph；　directly　Mr。　Bast　had　shut　the　
door　and　they　were　alone　together。　“Mary；”　he　repeated。　
But　the　old　difficulty　of　speaking　to　Mary　without　reserve　
prevented　him　from　continuing。　His　desire　to　proclaim　
his　love　for　Katharine　was　still　strong　in　him；　but　he　had　
felt；　directly　he　saw　Mary；　that　he　could　not　share　it　with　

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Night　and　Day　

her。　The　feeling　increased　as　he　sat　talking　to　Mr。　Bast。　
And　yet　all　the　time　he　was　thinking　of　Katharine；　and　
marveling　at　his　love。　The　tone　in　which　he　spoke　Mary’s　
name　was　harsh。　

“What　is　it；　Ralph？”　she　asked；　startled　by　his　tone。　She　
looked　at　him　anxiously；　and　her　little　frown　showed　that　
she　was　trying　painfully　to　understand　him；　and　was　
puzzled。　He　could　feel　her　groping　for　his　meaning；　and　
he　was　annoyed　with　her；　and　thought　how　he　had　always　
found　her　slow；　painstaking；　and　clumsy。　He　had　
behaved　badly　to　her；　too；　which　made　his　irritation　the　
more　acute。　Without　waiting　for　him　to　answer；　she　rose　
as　if　his　answer　were　indifferent　to　her；　and　began　to　put　
in　order　some　papers　that　Mr。　Bast　had　left　on　the　
table。　She　hummed　a　scrap　of　a　tune　under　her　breath；　
and　moved　about　the　room　as　if　she　were　occupied　in　
making　things　tidy；　and　had　no　other　concern。　

“You’ll　stay　and　dine？”　she　said　casually；　returning　to　
her　seat。　

“No；”　Ralph　replied。　She　did　not　press　him　further。　They　
sat　side　by　side　without　speaking；　and　Mary　reached　her　

hand　for　her　work　basket；　and　took　out　her　sewing　and　
threaded　a　needle。　

“That’s　a　clever　young　man；”　Ralph　observed；　referring　
to　Mr。　Bast。　

“I’m　glad　you　thought　so。　It’s　tremendously　interesting　
work；　and　considering　everything；　I　think　we’ve　done　very　
well。　But　I’m　inclined　to　agree　with　you；　we　ought　to　try　
to　be　more　conciliatory。　We’re　absurdly　strict。　It’s　difficult　
to　see　that　there　may　be　sense　in　what　one’s　opponents　
say；　though　they　are　one’s　opponents。　Horace　
Bast　is　certainly　too　unpromising。　I　mustn’t　forget　
to　see　that　he　writes　that　letter　to　Judson。　You’re　too　
busy；　I　suppose；　to　e　on　to　our　mittee？”　She　spoke　
in　the　most　impersonal　manner。　

“I　may　be　out　of　town；”　Ralph　replied；　with　equal　distance　
of　manner。　

“Our　executive　meets　every　week；　of　course；”　she　observed。　
“But　some　of　our　members　don’t　e　more　than　
once　a　month。　Members　of　Parliament　are　the　worst；　it　
was　a　mistake；　I　think；　to　ask　them。”　

She　went　on　sewing　in　silence。　

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Virginia　Woolf　

“You’ve　not　taken　your　quinine；”　she　said；　looking　up　
and　seeing　the　tabloids　upon　the　mantelpiece。　

“I　don’t　want　it；”　said　Ralph　shortly。　

“Well；　you　know　best；”　she　replied　tranquilly。　

“Mary；　I’m　a　brute！”　he　exclaimed。　“Here　I　e　and　
waste　your　time；　and　do　nothing　but　make　myself　disagreeable。”　


“A　cold　ing　on　does　make　one　feel　wretched；”　she　
replied。　

“I’ve　not　got　a　cold。　That　was　a　lie。　There’s　nothing　the　
matter　with　me。　I’m　mad；　I　suppose。　I　ought　to　have　had　
the　decency　to　keep　away。　But　I　wanted　to　see　you—I　
wanted　to　tell　you—I’m　in　love；　Mary。”　He　spoke　the　word；　
but；　as　he　spoke　it；　it　seemed　robbed　of　substance。　

“In　love；　are　you？”　she　said　quietly。　“I’m　glad；　Ralph。”　

“I　suppose　I’m　in　love。　Anyhow；　I’m　out　of　my　mind。　I　
can’t　think；　I　can’t　work；　I　don’t　care　a　hang　for　anything　
in　the　world。　Good　Heavens；　Mary！　I’m　in　torment！　One　
moment　I’m　happy；　next　I’m　miserable。　I　hate　her　for　half　
an　hour；　then　I’d　give　my　whole　life　to　be　with　her　for　ten　
minutes；　all　the　time　I　don’t　know　what　I　feel；　or　why　I　

feel　it；　it’s　insanity；　and　yet　it’s　perfectly　reasonable。　Can　
you　make　any　sense　of　it？　Can　you　see　what’s　happened？　
I’m　raving；　I　know；　don’t　listen；　Mary；　go　on　with　your　
work。”　

He　rose　and　began；　as　usual；　to　pace　up　and　down　the　
room。　He　knew　that　what　he　had　just　said　bore　very　little　
resemblance　to　what　he　felt；　for　Mary’s　presence　acted　
upon　him　like　a　very　strong　mag；　drawing　from　him　
certain　expressions　which　were　not　those　he　made　use　of　
when　he　spoke　to　himself；　nor　did　they　represent　his　
deepest　feelings。　He　felt　a　little　contempt　for　himself　at　
having　spoken　thus；　but　somehow　he　had　been　forced　
into　speech。　

“Do　sit　down；”　said　Mary　suddenly。　“You　make　me　so—　
”　She　spoke　with　unusual　irritability；　and　Ralph；　noticing　
it　with　surprise；　sat　down　at　once。　

“You　haven’t　told　me　her　name—you’d　rather　not；　I　
suppose？”　

“Her　name？　Katharine　Hilbery。”　

“But　she’s　engaged—”　

“To　Rodney。　They’re　to　be　married　in　September。”　

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Night　and　Day　

“I　see；”　said　Mary。　But　in　truth　the　calm　of　his　manner；　
now　that　he　was　sitting　down　once　more；　wrapt　her　in　
the　presence　of　something　which　she　felt　to　be　so　strong；　
so　mysterious；　so　incalculable；　that　she　scarcely　dared　to　
attempt　to　intercept　it　by　any　word　or　question　that　she　
was　able　to　frame。　She　looked　at　Ralph　blankly；　with　a　
kind　of　awe　in　her　face；　her　lips　slightly　parted；　and　her　
brows　raised。　He　was　apparently　quite　unconscious　of　her　
gaze。　Then；　as　if　she　could　look　no　longer；　she　leant　back　
in　her　chair；　and　half　closed　her　eyes。　The　distance　between　
them　hurt　her　terribly；　one　thing　after　another　
came　into　her　mind；　tempting　her　to　assail　Ralph　with　
questions；　to　force　him　to　confide　in　her；　and　to　enjoy　
once　more　his　intimacy。　But　she　rejected　every　impulse；　
for　she　could　not　speak　without　doing　violence　to　some　
reserve　which　had　grown　between　them；　putting　them　a　
little　far　from　each　other；　so　that　he　seemed　to　her　dignified　
and　remote；　like　a　person　she　no　longer　knew　well。　

“Is　there　anything　that　I　could　do　for　you？”　she　asked　
gently；　and　even　with　courtesy；　at　length。　

“You　could　see　her—no；　that’s　not　what　I　want；　you　

mustn’t　bother　about　me；　Mary。”　He；　too；　spoke　very　gently。　


“I’m　afraid　no　third　person　can　do　anything　to　help；”　
she　added。　

“No；”　he　shook　his　head。　“Katharine　was　saying　today　
how　lonely　we　are。”　She　saw　the　effort　with　which　he　
spoke　Katharine’s　name；　and　believed　that　he　forced　himself　
to　make　amends　now　for　his　concealment　in　the　past。　
At　any　rate；　she　was　conscious　of　no　anger　against　him；　
but　rather　of　a　deep　pity　for　one　condemned　to　suffer　as　
she　had　suffered。　But　in　the　case　of　Katharine　it　was　
different；　she　was　indignant　with　Katharine。　

“There’s　always　work；”　she　said；　a　little　aggressively。　

Ralph　moved　directly。　

“Do　you　want　to　be　working　now？”　he　asked。　

“No；　no。　It’s　Sunday；”　she　replied。　“I　was　thinking　of　
Katharine。　She　doesn’t　understand　about　work。　She’s　never　
had　to。　She　doesn’t　know　what　work　is。　I’ve　only　found　
out　myself　quite　lately。　But　it’s　the　thing　that　saves　one—　
I’m　sure　of　that。”　

“There　are　other　things；　aren’t　there？”　he　hesitated。　

340　



Virginia　Woolf　

“Nothing　that　one　can　count　upon；”　she　returned。　“After　
all；　other　people—”　she　stopped；　but　forced　herself　to　go　
on。　“Where　should　I　be　now　if　I　hadn’t　got　to　go　to　my　
office　every　day？　Thousands　of　people　would　tell　you　the　
same　thing—thousands　of　women。　I　tell　you；　work　is　the　
only　thing　that　saved　me；　Ralph。”　He　set　his　mouth；　as　if　
her　words　rained　blows　on　him；　he　looked　as　if　he　had　
made　up　his　mind　to　bear　anything　she　might　say；　in　silence。　
He　had　deserved　it；　and　there　would　be　relief　in　
having　to　bear　it。　But　she　broke　off；　and　rose　as　if　to　fetch　
something　from　the　next　room。　Before　she　reached　the　
door　she　turned　back；　and　stood　facing　him；　selfpossessed；　
and　yet　defiant　and　formidable　in　her　posure。　

“It’s　all　turned　out　splendidly　for　me；”　she　said。　“It　will　
for　you；　too。　I’m　sure　of　that。　Because；　after　all；　Katharine　
is　worth　it。”　

“Mary—！”　he　exclaimed。　But　her　head　was　turned　away；　
and　he　could　not　say　what　he　wished　to　say。　“Mary；　you’re　
splendid；”　he　concluded。　She　faced　him　as　he　spoke；　and　
gave　him　her　hand。　She　had　suffered　and　relinquished；　
she　had　seen　her　future　turned　from　one　of　infinite　promise　

to　one　of　barrenness；　and　yet；　somehow；　over　what　she　
scarcely　knew；　and　with　what　results　she　could　hardly　
foretell；　she　had　conquered。　With　Ralph’s　eyes　upon　her；　
smiling　straight　back　at　him　serenely　and　proudly；　she　
knew；　for　the　first　time；　that　she　had　conquered。　She　let　
him　kiss　her　hand。　

The　streets　were　empty　enough　on　Sunday　night；　and　if　
the　Sabbath；　and　the　domestic　amusements　proper　to　the　
Sabbath；　had　not　kept　people　indoors；　a　high　strong　wind　
might　very　probably　have　done　so。　Ralph　Denham　was　
aware　of　a　tumult　in　the　street　much　in　accordance　with　
his　own　sensations。　The　gusts；　sweeping　along　the　Strand；　
seemed　at　the　same　time　to　blow　a　clear　space　across　the　
sky　in　which　stars　appeared；　and　for　a　short　time　the　
quickspeeding　silver　moon　riding　through　clouds；　as　if　
they　were　waves　of　water　surging　round　her　and　over　her。　
They　swamped　her；　but　she　emerged；　they　broke　over　her　
and　covered　her　again；　she　issued　forth　indomitable。　In　
the　country　fields　all　the　wreckage　of　winter　was　being　
dispersed；　the　dead　leaves；　the　withered　bracken；　the　dry　
and　discolored　grass；　but　no　bud　would　be　broken；　nor　

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Night　and　Day　

would　the　new　stalks　that　showed　above　the　earth　take　
any　harm；　and　perhaps　tomorrow　a　line　of　blue　or　yellow　
would　show　through　a　slit　in　their　green。　But　the　whirl　of　
the　atmosphere　alone　was　in　Denham’s　mood；　and　what　
of　star　or　blossom　appeared　was　only　as　a　light　gleaming　
for　a　second　upon　heaped　waves　fast　following　each　other。　
He　had　not　been　able　to　speak　to　Mary；　though　for　a　
moment　he　had　e　near　enough　to　be　tantalized　by　a　
wonderful　possibility　of　understanding。　But　the　desire　to　
municate　something　of　the　very　greatest　importance　
possessed　him　pletely；　he　still　wished　to　bestow　this　
gift　upon　some　other　human　being；　he　sought　their　pany。　
More　by　instinct　than　by　conscious　choice；　he　took　
the　direction　which　led　to　Rodney’s　rooms。　He　knocked　
loudly　upon　his　door；　but　no　one　answered。　He　rang　the　
bell。　It　took　him　some　time　to　accept　the　fact　that　Rodney　
was　out。　When　he　could　no　longer　pretend　that　the　sound　
of　the　wind　in　the　old　building　was　the　sound　of　some　
one　rising　from　his　chair；　he　ran　downstairs　again；　as　if　
his　goal　had　been　altered　and　only　just　revealed　to　him。　
He　walked　in　the　direction　of　Chelsea。　

But　physical　fatigue；　for　he　had　not　dined　and　had　
tramped　both　far　and　fast；　made　him　sit　for　a　moment　
upon　a　seat　on　the　Embankment。　One　of　the　regular　occupants　
of　those　seats；　an　elderly　man　who　had　drunk　
himself；　probably；　out　of　work　and　lodging；　drifted　up；　
begged　a　match；　and　sat　down　beside　him。　It　was　a　windy　
night；　he　said；　times　were　hard；　some　long　story　of　bad　
luck　and　injustice　followed；　told　so　often　that　the　man　
seemed　to　be　talking　to　himself；　or；　perhaps；　the　neglect　
of　his　audience　had　long　made　any　attempt　to　catch　their　
attention　seem　scarcely　worth　while。　When　he　began　to　
speak　Ralph　had　a　wild　desire　to　talk　to　him；　to　question　
him；　to　make　him　understand。　He　did；　in　fact；　interrupt　
him　at　one　point；　but　it　was　useless。　The　ancient　story　of　
failure；　illluck；　undeserved　disaster；　went　down　the　wind；　
disconnected　syllables　flying　past　Ralph’s　ears　with　a　queer　
alternation　of　loudness　and　faintness　as　if；　at　certain　
moments；　the　man’s　memory　of　his　wrongs　revived　and　
then　flagged；　dying　down　at　last　into　a　grumble　of　resignation；　
which　seemed　to　represent　a　final　lapse　into　the　
accustomed　despair。　The　unhappy　voice　afflicted　Ralph；　

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Virginia　Woolf　

but　it　also　angered　him。　And　when　the　elderly　man　refused　
to　listen　and　mumbled　on；　an　odd　image　came　to　
his　mind　of　a　lighthouse　besieged　by　the　flying　bodies　of　
lost　birds；　who　were　dashed　senseless；　by　the　gale；　against　
the　glass。　He　had　a　strange　sensation　that　he　was　both　
lighthouse　and　bird；　he　was　steadfast　and　brilliant；　and　
at　the　same　time　he　was　whirled；　with　all　other　things；　
senseless　against　the　glass。　He　got　up；　left　his　tribute　of　
silver；　and　pressed　on；　with　the　wind　against　him。　The　
image　of　the　lighthouse　and　the　storm　full　of　birds　persisted；　
taking　the　place　of　more　definite　thoughts；　as　he　
walked　past　the　Houses　of　Parliament　and　down　Grosvenor　
Road；　by　the　side　of　the　river。　In　his　state　of　physical　
fatigue；　details　merged　themselves　in　the　vaster　prospect；　
of　which　the　flying　gloom　and　the　intermittent　lights　
of　lampposts　and　private　houses　were　the　outward　token；　
but　he　never　lost　his　sense　of　walking　in　the　direction　
of　Katharine’s　house。　He　took　it　for　granted　that　
something　would　then　happen；　and；　as　he　walked　on；　his　
mind　became　more　and　more　full　of　pleasure　and　expectancy。　
Within　a　certain　radius　of　her　house　the　streets　

came　under　the　influence　of　her　presence。　Each　house　
had　an　individuality　known　to　Ralph；　because　of　the　tremendous　
individuality　of　the　house　in　which　she　lived。　
For　some　yards　before　reaching　the　Hilberys’　door　he　
walked　in　a　trance　of　pleasure；　but　when　he　reached　it；　
and　pushed　the　gate　of　the　little　garden　open；　he　hesitated。　
He　did　not　know　what　to　do　next。　There　was　no　
hurry；　however；　for　the　outside　of　the　house　held　pleasure　
enough　to　last　him　some　time　longer。　He　crossed　the　
road；　and　leant　against　the　balustrade　of　the　Embankment；　
fixing　his　eyes　upon　the　house。　

Lights　burnt　in　the　three　long　windows　of　the　drawing
room。　The　space　of　the　room　behind　became；　in　Ralph’s　
vision；　the　center　of　the　dark；　flying　wilderness　of　the　
world；　the　justification　for　the　welter　of　confusion　surrounding　
it；　the　steady　light　which　cast　its　beams；　like　
those　of　a　lighthouse；　with　searching　posure　over　the　
trackless　waste。　In　this　little　sanctuary　were　gathered　
together　several　different　people；　but　their　identity　was　
dissolved　in　a　general　glory　of　something　that　might；　
perhaps；　be　called　civilization；　at　any　rate；　all　dryness；　

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Night　and　Day　

all　safety；　all　that　stood　up　above　the　surge　and　preserved　
a　consciousness　of　its　own；　was　centered　in　the　
drawingroom　of　the　Hilberys。　Its　purpose　was　beneficent；　
and　yet　so　far　above　his　level　as　to　have　something　
austere　about　it；　a　light　that　cast　itself　out　and　yet　kept　
itself　aloof。　Then　he　began；　in　his　mind；　to　distinguish　
different　individuals　within；　consciously　refusing　as　yet　
to　attack　the　figure　of　Katharine。　His　thoughts　lingered　
over　Mrs。　Hilbery　and　Cassandra；　and　then　he　turned　to　
Rodney　and　Mr。　Hilbery。　Physically；　he　saw　them　bathed　
in　that　steady　flow　of　yellow　light　which　filled　the　long　
oblongs　of　the　windows；　in　their　movements　they　were　
beautiful；　and　in　their　speech　he　figured　a　reserve　of　
meaning；　unspoken；　but　understood。　At　length；　after　all　
this　halfconscious　selection　and　arrangement；　he　allowed　
himself　to　approach　the　figure　of　Katharine　herself；　and　
instantly　the　scene　was　flooded　with　excitement。　He　did　
not　see　her　in　the　body；　he　seemed　curiously　to　see　her　
as　a　shape　of　light；　the　light　itself；　he　seemed；　simplifi