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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第55部分

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“Katharine isn’t going to marry me; after all。” 

“Where shall I put—” Ralph began vaguely; holding 
out his hat and glancing about him; he balanced it carefully 
against a silver bowl that stood upon the sideboard。 
He then sat himself down rather heavily at the head of 
the oval dinnertable。 Rodney stood on one side of him 
and Katharine on the other。 He appeared to be presiding 
over some meeting from which most of the members were 
absent。 Meanwhile; he waited; and his eyes rested upon 
the glow of the beautifully polished mahogany table。 

“William is engaged to Cassandra;” said Katharine briefly。 

At that Denham looked up quickly at Rodney。 Rodney’s 
expression changed。 He lost his selfpossession。 He smiled 
a little nervously; and then his attention seemed to be 
caught by a fragment of melody from the floor above。 He 
seemed for a moment to forget the presence of the others。 
He glanced towards the door。 

“I congratulate you;” said Denham。 

“Yes; yes。 We’re all mad—quite out of our minds; 
Denham;” he said。 “It’s partly Katharine’s doing—partly 
mine。” He looked oddly round the room as if he wished to 
make sure that the scene in which he played a part had 
some real existence。 “Quite mad;” he repeated。 “Even 
Katharine—” His gaze rested upon her finally; as if she; 
too; had changed from his old view of her。 He smiled at 
her as if to encourage her。 “Katharine shall explain;” he 
said; and giving a little nod to Denham; he left the room。 

Katharine sat down at once; and leant her chin upon 
her hands。 So long as Rodney was in the room the proceedings 
of the evening had seemed to be in his charge; 
and had been marked by a certain unreality。 Now that 
she was alone with Ralph she felt at once that a constraint 
had been taken from them both。 She felt that 
they were alone at the bottom of the house; which rose; 
story upon story; upon the top of them。 

“Why were you waiting out there?” she asked。 

“For the chance of seeing you;” he replied。 

“You would have waited all night if it hadn’t been for 
William。 It’s windy too。 You must have been cold。 What 

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could you see? Nothing but our windows。” 

“It was worth it。 I heard you call me。” 

“I called you?” She had called unconsciously。 

“They were engaged this morning;” she told him; after 
a pause。 

“You’re glad?” he asked。 

She bent her head。 “Yes; yes;” she sighed。 “But you 
don’t know how good he is—what he’s done for me—” 
Ralph made a sound of understanding。 “You waited there 
last night too?” she asked。 

“Yes。 I can wait;” Denham replied。 

The words seemed to fill the room with an emotion 
which Katharine connected with the sound of distant 
wheels; the footsteps hurrying along the pavement; the 
cries of sirens hooting down the river; the darkness and 
the wind。 She saw the upright figure standing beneath 
the lamppost。 

“Waiting in the dark;” she said; glancing at the window; 
as if he saw what she was seeing。 “Ah; but it’s different—” 
She broke off。 “I’m not the person you think 
me。 Until you realize that it’s impossible—” 

Placing her elbows on the table; she slid her ruby ring 
up and down her finger abstractedly。 She frowned at the 
rows of leatherbound books opposite her。 Ralph looked 
keenly at her。 Very pale; but sternly concentrated upon 
her meaning; beautiful but so little aware of herself as to 
seem remote from him also; there was something distant 
and abstract about her which exalted him and chilled 
him at the same time。 

“No; you’re right;” he said。 “I don’t know you。 I’ve never 
known you。” 

“Yet perhaps you know me better than any one else;” 
she mused。 

Some detached instinct made her aware that she was 
gazing at a book which belonged by rights to some other 
part of the house。 She walked over to the shelf; took it 
down; and returned to her seat; placing the book on the 
table between them。 Ralph opened it and looked at the 
portrait of a man with a voluminous white shirtcollar; 
which formed the frontispiece。 

“I say I do know you; Katharine;” he affirmed; shutting 
the book。 “It’s only for moments that I go mad。” 

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Virginia Woolf 

“Do you call two whole nights a moment?” 

“I swear to you that now; at this instant; I see you 
precisely as you are。 No one has ever known you as I 
know you… 。 Could you have taken down that book just 
now if I hadn’t known you?” 

“That’s true;” she replied; “but you can’t think how I’m 
divided—how I’m at my ease with you; and how I’m bewildered。 
The unreality—the dark—the waiting outside 
in the wind—yes; when you look at me; not seeing me; 
and I don’t see you either… 。 But I do see;” she went on 
quickly; changing her position and frowning again; “heaps 
of things; only not you。” 

“Tell me what you see;” he urged。 

But she could not reduce her vision to words; since it 
was no single shape colored upon the dark; but rather a 
general excitement; an atmosphere; which; when she tried 
to visualize it; took form as a wind scouring the flanks of 
northern hills and flashing light upon cornfields and pools。 

“Impossible;” she sighed; laughing at the ridiculous notion 
of putting any part of this into words。 

“Try; Katharine;” Ralph urged her。 

“But I can’t—I’m talking a sort of nonsense—the sort 
of nonsense one talks to oneself。” She was dismayed by 
the expression of longing and despair upon his face。 “I 
was thinking about a mountain in the North of England;” 
she attempted。 “It’s too silly—I won’t go on。” 

“We were there together?” he pressed her。 

“No。 I was alone。” She seemed to be disappointing the 
desire of a child。 His face fell。 

“You’re always alone there?” 

“I can’t explain。” She could not explain that she was 
essentially alone there。 “It’s not a mountain in the North 
of England。 It’s an imagination—a story one tells oneself。 
You have yours too?” 

“You’re with me in mine。 You’re the thing I make up; 
you see。” 

“Oh; I see;” she sighed。 “That’s why it’s so impossible。” 
She turned upon him almost fiercely。 “You must try to 
stop it;” she said。 

“I won’t;” he replied roughly; “because I—” He stopped。 
He realized that the moment had e to impart that 
news of the utmost importance which he had tried to 

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Night and Day 

impart to Mary Datchet; to Rodney upon the Embankment; 
to the drunken tramp upon the seat。 How should 
he offer it to Katharine? He looked quickly at her。 He saw 
that she was only half attentive to him; only a section of 
her was exposed to him。 The sight roused in him such 
desperation that he had much ado to control his impulse 
to rise and leave the house。 Her hand lay loosely curled 
upon the table。 He seized it and grasped it firmly as if to 
make sure of her existence and of his own。 “Because I 
love you; Katharine;” he said。 

Some roundness or warmth essential to that statement 
was absent from his voice; and she had merely to shake 
her head very slightly for him to drop her hand and turn 
away in shame at his own impotence。 He thought that 
she had detected his wish to leave her。 She had discerned 
the break in his resolution; the blankness in the heart of 
his vision。 It was true that he had been happier out in 
the street; thinking of her; than now that he was in the 
same room with her。 He looked at her with a guilty expression 
on his face。 But her look expressed neither disappointment 
nor reproach。 Her pose was easy; and she 

seemed to give effect to a mood of quiet speculation by 
the spinning of her ruby ring upon the polished table。 
Denham forgot his despair in wondering what thoughts 
now occupied her。 

“You don’t believe me?” he said。 His tone was humble; 
and made her smile at him。 

“As far as I understand you—but what should you advise 
me to do with this ring?” she asked; holding it out。 

“I should advise you to let me keep it for you;” he 
replied; in the same tone of halfhumorous gravity。 

“After what you’ve said; I can hardly trust you—unless 
you’ll unsay what you’ve said?” 

“Very well。 I’m not in love with you。” 

“But I think you are in love with me… 。 As I am with 
you;” she added casually enough。 “At least;” she said 
slipping her ring back to its old position; “what other 
word describes the state we’re in?” 

She looked at him gravely and inquiringly; as if in search 
of help。 

“It’s when I’m with you that I doubt it; not when I’m 
alone;” he stated。 

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Virginia Woolf 

“So I thought;” she replied。 

In order to explain to her his state of mind; Ralph recounted 
his experience with the photograph; the letter; 
and the flower picked at Kew。 She listened very seriously。 

“And then you went raving about the streets;” she 
mused。 “Well; it’s bad enough。 But my state is worse than 
yours; because it hasn’t anything to do with facts。 It’s an 
hallucination; pure and simple—an intoxication… 。 One 
can be in love with pure reason?” she hazarded。 “Because 
if you’re in love with a vision; I believe that that’s 
what I’m in love with。” 

This conclusion seemed fantastic and profoundly unsatisfactory 
to Ralph; but after the astonishing variations 
of his own sentiments during the past halfhour he 
could not accuse her of fanciful exaggeration。 

“Rodney seems to know his own mind well enough;” he 
said almost bitterly。 The music; which had ceased; had 
now begun again; and the melody of Mozart seemed to 
express the easy and exquisite love of the two upstairs。 

“Cassandra never doubted for a moment。 But we—” she 
glanced at him as if to ascertain his position; “we see 

each other only now and then—” 

“Like lights in a storm—” 

“In the midst of a hurricane;” she concluded; as the 
window shook beneath the pressure of the wind。 They 
listened to the sound in silence。 

Here the door opened with considerable hesitation; and 
Mrs。 Hilbery’s head appeared; at first with an air of caution; 
but having made sure that she had admitted herself 
to the diningroom and not to some more unusual region; 
she came pletely inside and seemed in no way 
taken aback by the sight she saw。 She seemed; as usual; 
bound on some quest of her own which was interrupted 
pleasantly but strangely by running into one of those 
queer; unnecessary ceremonies that other people thought 
fit to indulge in。 

“Please don’t let me interrupt you; Mr。—” she was at a 
loss; as usual; for the name; and Katharine thought that 
she did not recognize him。 “I hope you’ve found something 
nice to read;” she added; pointing to the book upon 
the table。 “Byron—ah; Byron。 I’ve known people who 
knew Lord Byron;” she said。 

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Night and Day 

Katharine; who had risen in some confusion; could not 
help smiling at the thought that her mother found it 
perfectly natural and desirable that her daughter should 
be reading Byron in the diningroom late at night alone 
with a strange young man。 She blessed a disposition that 
was so convenient; and felt tenderly towards her mother 
and her mother’s eccentricities。 But Ralph observed that 
although Mrs。 Hilbery held the book so close to her eyes 
she was not reading a word。 

“My dear mother; why aren’t you in bed?” Katharine 
exclaimed; changing astonishingly in the space of a minute 
to her usual condition of authoritative good sense。 “Why 
are you wandering about?” 

“I’m sure I should like your poetry better than I like 
Lord Byron’s;” said Mrs。 Hilbery; addressing Ralph Denham。 

“Mr。 Denham doesn’t write poetry; he has written articles 
for father; for the Review;” Katharine said; as if 
prompting her memory。 

“Oh dear! How dull!” Mrs。 Hilbery exclaimed; with a 
sudden laugh that rather puzzled her daughter。 

Ralph found that she had turned upon him a gaze that 

was at once very vague and very perating。 

“But I’m sure you read poetry at night。 I always judge 
by the expression of the eyes;” Mrs。 Hilbery continued。 
(“The windows of the soul;” she added parenthetically。) 
“I don’t know much about the law;” she went on; “though 
many of my relations were lawyers。 Some of them looked 
very handsome; too; in their wigs。 But I think I do know 
a little about poetry;” she added。 “And all the things that 
aren’t written down; but—but—” She waved her hand; 
as if to indicate the wealth of unwritten poetry all about 
them。 “The night and the stars; the dawn ing up; the 
barges swimming past; the sun setting… 。 Ah dear;” she 
sighed; “well; the sunset is very lovely too。 I sometimes 
think that poetry isn’t so much what we write as what we 
feel; Mr。 Denham。” 

During this speech of her mother’s Katharine had turned 
away; and Ralph felt that Mrs。 Hilbery was talking to him 
apart; with a desire to ascertain something about him 
which she veiled purposely by the vagueness of her words。 
He felt curiously encouraged and heartened by the beam 
in her eye rather than by her actual words。 From the dis


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Virginia Woolf 

tance of her age and sex she seemed to be waving to 
him; hailing him as a ship sinking beneath the horizon 
might wave its flag of greeting to another setting out 
upon the same voyage。 He bent his head; saying nothing; 
but with a curious certainty that she had read an 
answer to her inquiry that satisfied her。 At any rate; she 
rambled off into a description of the Law Courts which 
turned to a denunciation of English justice; which; according 
to her; imprisoned poor men who couldn’t pay 
their debts。 “Tell me; shall we ever do without it all?” she 
asked; but at this point Katharine gently insisted that 
her mother should go to bed。 Looking back from halfway 
up the staircase; Katharine seemed to see Denham’s eyes 
watching her steadily and intently with an expression 
that she had guessed in them when he stood looking at 
the windows across the road。 

CHAPTER XXXI 


The tray which brought Katharine’s cup of tea the next 
morning brought; also; a note from her mother; announcing 
that it was her intention to catch an early train to 
StratfordonAvon that very day。 

“Please find out the best way of getting there;” the 
note ran; “and wire to dear Sir John Burdett to expect 
me; with my love。 I’ve been dreaming all night of you and 
Shakespeare; dearest Katharine。” 

This was no momentary impulse。 Mrs。 Hilbery had been 
dreaming of Shakespeare any time these six months; toying 
with the idea of an excursion to what she considered 
the heart of the civilized world。 To stand six feet above 
Shakespeare’s bones; to see the very stones worn by his 
feet; to reflect that the oldest man’s oldest mother had 
very likely seen Shakespeare’s daughter—such thoughts 
roused an emotion in her; which she expressed at unsuitable 
moments; and with a passion that would not have 
been unseemly in a pilgrim to a sacred shrine。 The only 
strange thing was that she wished to go by herself。 But; 

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