[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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“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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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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“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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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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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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