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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第58部分

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to give her Ralph’s address。 The decision was a relief; not 
only in giving her a goal; but in providing her with a 
rational excuse for her own actions。 It gave her a goal 
certainly; but the fact of having a goal led her to dwell 
exclusively upon her obsession; so that when she rang 
the bell of Mary’s flat; she did not for a moment consider 
how this demand would strike Mary。 To her extreme annoyance 
Mary was not at home; a charwoman opened the 
door。 All Katharine could do was to accept the invitation 
to wait。 She waited for; perhaps; fifteen minutes; and 
spent them in pacing from one end of the room to the 
other without intermission。 When she heard Mary’s key in 

the door she paused in front of the fireplace; and Mary 
found her standing upright; looking at once expectant 
and determined; like a person who has e on an errand 
of such importance that it must be broached without 
preface。 

Mary exclaimed in surprise。 

“Yes; yes;” Katharine said; brushing these remarks aside; 
as if they were in the way。 

“Have you had tea?” 

“Oh yes;” she said; thinking that she had had tea hundreds 
of years ago; somewhere or other。 

Mary paused; took off her gloves; and; finding matches; 
proceeded to light the fire。 

Katharine checked her with an impatient movement; 
and said: 

“Don’t light the fire for me… 。 I want to know Ralph 
Denham’s address。” 

She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the 
envelope。 She waited with an imperious expression。 

“The Apple Orchard; Mount Ararat Road; Highgate;” Mary 
said; speaking slowly and rather strangely。 

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Night and Day 

“Oh; I remember now!” Katharine exclaimed; with irritation 
at her own stupidity。 “I suppose it wouldn’t take 
twenty minutes to drive there?” She gathered up her purse 
and gloves and seemed about to go。 

“But you won’t find him;” said Mary; pausing with a 
match in her hand。 Katharine; who had already turned 
towards the door; stopped and looked at her。 

“Why? Where is he?” she asked。 

“He won’t have left his office。” 

“But he has left the office;” she replied。 “The only question 
is will he have reached home yet? He went to see me 
at Chelsea; I tried to meet him and missed him。 He will 
have found no message to explain。 So I must find him— 
as soon as possible。” 

Mary took in the situation at her leisure。 

“But why not telephone?” she said。 

Katharine immediately dropped all that she was holding; 
her strained expression relaxed; and exclaiming; “Of course! 
Why didn’t I think of that!” she seized the telephone receiver 
and gave her number。 Mary looked at her steadily; 
and then left the room。 At length Katharine heard; through 

all the superimposed weight of London; the mysterious 
sound of feet in her own house mounting to the little 
room; where she could almost see the pictures and the 
books; she listened with extreme intentness to the preparatory 
vibrations; and then established her identity。 

“Has Mr。 Denham called?” 

“Yes; miss。” 

“Did he ask for me?” 

“Yes。 We said you were out; miss。” 

“Did he leave any message?” 

“No。 He went away。 About twenty minutes ago; miss。” 

Katharine hung up the receiver。 She walked the length 
of the room in such acute disappointment that she did 
not at first perceive Mary’s absence。 Then she called in a 
harsh and peremptory tone: 

“Mary。” 

Mary was taking off her outdoor things in the bedroom。 
She heard Katharine call her。 “Yes;” she said; “I shan’t be 
a moment。” But the moment prolonged itself; as if for 
some reason Mary found satisfaction in making herself 
not only tidy; but seemly and ornamented。 A stage in her 

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Virginia Woolf 

life had been acplished in the last months which left 
its traces for ever upon her bearing。 Youth; and the bloom 
of youth; had receded; leaving the purpose of her face to 
show itself in the hollower cheeks; the firmer lips; the 
eyes no longer spontaneously observing at random; but 
narrowed upon an end which was not near at hand。 This 
woman was now a serviceable human being; mistress of 
her own destiny; and thus; by some bination of ideas; 
fit to be adorned with the dignity of silver chains and 
glowing brooches。 She came in at her leisure and asked: 
“Well; did you get an answer?” 

“He has left Chelsea already;” Katharine replied。 

“Still; he won’t be home yet;” said Mary。 

Katharine was once more irresistibly drawn to gaze upon 
an imaginary map of London; to follow the twists and 
turns of unnamed streets。 

“I’ll ring up his home and ask whether he’s back。” Mary 
crossed to the telephone and; after a series of brief remarks; 
announced: 

“No。 His sister says he hasn’t e back yet。” 

“Ah!” She applied her ear to the telephone once more。 

“They’ve had a message。 He won’t be back to dinner。” 

“Then what is he going to do?” 

Very pale; and with her large eyes fixed not so much 
upon Mary as upon vistas of unresponding blankness; 
Katharine addressed herself also not so much to Mary as 
to the unrelenting spirit which now appeared to mock 
her from every quarter of her survey。 

After waiting a little time Mary remarked indifferently: 

“I really don’t know。” Slackly lying back in her armchair; 
she watched the little flames beginning to creep 
among the coals indifferently; as if they; too; were very 
distant and indifferent。 

Katharine looked at her indignantly and rose。 

“Possibly he may e here;” Mary continued; without 
altering the abstract tone of her voice。 “It would be worth 
your while to wait if you want to see him tonight。” She 
bent forward and touched the wood; so that the flames 
slipped in between the interstices of the coal。 

Katharine reflected。 “I’ll wait half an hour;” she said。 
Mary rose; went to the table; spread out her papers 
under the greenshaded lamp and; with an action that 

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Night and Day 

was being a habit; twisted a lock of hair round and 
round in her fingers。 Once she looked unperceived at her 
visitor; who never moved; who sat so still; with eyes so 
intent; that you could almost fancy that she was watching 
something; some face that never looked up at her。 
Mary found herself unable to go on writing。 She turned 
her eyes away; but only to be aware of the presence of 
what Katharine looked at。 There were ghosts in the room; 
and one; strangely and sadly; was the ghost of herself。 
The minutes went by。 

“What would be the time now?” said Katharine at last。 
The halfhour was not quite spent。 

“I’m going to get dinner ready;” said Mary; rising from 
her table。 

“Then I’ll go;” said Katharine。 

“Why don’t you stay? Where are you going?” 

Katharine looked round the room; conveying her uncertainty 
in her glance。 

“Perhaps I might find him;” she mused。 

“But why should it matter? You’ll see him another day。” 

Mary spoke; and intended to speak; cruelly enough。 

“I was wrong to e here;” Katharine replied。 

Their eyes met with antagonism; and neither flinched。 

“You had a perfect right to e here;” Mary answered。 

A loud knocking at the door interrupted them。 Mary 
went to open it; and returning with some note or parcel; 
Katharine looked away so that Mary might not read her 
disappointment。 

“Of course you had a right to e;” Mary repeated; 
laying the note upon the table。 

“No;” said Katharine。 “Except that when one’s desperate 
one has a sort of right。 I am desperate。 How do I 
know what’s happening to him now? He may do anything。 
He may wander about the streets all night。 Anything may 
happen to him。” 

She spoke with a selfabandonment that Mary had never 
seen in her。 

“You know you exaggerate; you’re talking nonsense;” 
she said roughly。 

“Mary; I must talk—I must tell you—” 

“You needn’t tell me anything;” Mary interrupted her。 
“Can’t I see for myself?” 

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Virginia Woolf 

“No; no;” Katharine exclaimed。 “It’s not that—” 

Her look; passing beyond Mary; beyond the verge of the 
room and out beyond any words that came her way; wildly 
and passionately; convinced Mary that she; at any rate; 
could not follow such a glance to its end。 She was baffled; 
she tried to think herself back again into the height of 
her love for Ralph。 Pressing her fingers upon her eyelids; 
she murmured: 

“You forget that I loved him too。 I thought I knew him。 
I did know him。” 

And yet; what had she known? She could not remember 
it any more。 She pressed her eyeballs until they struck 
stars and suns into her darkness。 She convinced herself 
that she was stirring among ashes。 She desisted。 She was 
astonished at her discovery。 She did not love Ralph any 
more。 She looked back dazed into the room; and her eyes 
rested upon the table with its lamplit papers。 The steady 
radiance seemed for a second to have its counterpart 
within her; she shut her eyes; she opened them and looked 
at the lamp again; another love burnt in the place of the 
old one; or so; in a momentary glance of amazement; she 

guessed before the revelation was over and the old surroundings 
asserted themselves。 She leant in silence against 
the mantelpiece。 

“There are different ways of loving;” she murmured; half 
to herself; at length。 

Katharine made no reply and seemed unaware of her 
words。 She seemed absorbed in her own thoughts。 

“Perhaps he’s waiting in the street again tonight;” she 
exclaimed。 “I’ll go now。 I might find him。” 

“It’s far more likely that he’ll e here;” said Mary; 
and Katharine; after considering for a moment; said: 

“I’ll wait another halfhour。” 

She sank down into her chair again; and took up the 
same position which Mary had pared to the position 
of one watching an unseeing face。 She watched; indeed; 
not a face; but a procession; not of people; but of life 
itself: the good and bad; the meaning; the past; the 
present; and the future。 All this seemed apparent to her; 
and she was not ashamed of her extravagance so much as 
exalted to one of the pinnacles of existence; where it 
behoved the world to do her homage。 No one but she 

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Night and Day 

herself knew what it meant to miss Ralph Denham on 
that particular night; into this inadequate event crowded 
feelings that the great crises of life might have failed to 
call forth。 She had missed him; and knew the bitterness 
of all failure; she desired him; and knew the torment of 
all passion。 It did not matter what trivial accidents led to 
this culmination。 Nor did she care how extravagant she 
appeared; nor how openly she showed her feelings。 

When the dinner was ready Mary told her to e; and 
she came submissively; as if she let Mary direct her movements 
for her。 They ate and drank together almost in 
silence; and when Mary told her to eat more; she ate 
more; when she was told to drink wine; she drank it。 
Nevertheless; beneath this superficial obedience; Mary 
knew that she was following her own thoughts unhindered。 
She was not inattentive so much as remote; she 
looked at once so unseeing and so intent upon some 
vision of her own that Mary gradually felt more than protective—
she became actually alarmed at the prospect of 
some collision between Katharine and the forces of the 
outside world。 Directly they had done; Katharine an


nounced her intention of going。 

“But where are you going to?” Mary asked; desiring 
vaguely to hinder her。 

“Oh; I’m going home—no; to Highgate perhaps。” 

Mary saw that it would be useless to try to stop her。 All 
she could do was to insist upon ing too; but she met 
with no opposition; Katharine seemed indifferent to her 
presence。 In a few minutes they were walking along the 
Strand。 They walked so rapidly that Mary was deluded 
into the belief that Katharine knew where she was going。 
She herself was not attentive。 She was glad of the movement 
along lamplit streets in the open air。 She was fingering; 
painfully and with fear; yet with strange hope; 
too; the discovery which she had stumbled upon unexpectedly 
that night。 She was free once more at the cost 
of a gift; the best; perhaps; that she could offer; but she 
was; thank Heaven; in love no longer。 She was tempted 
to spend the first instalment of her freedom in some dissipation; 
in the pit of the Coliseum; for example; since 
they were now passing the door。 Why not go in and celebrate 
her independence of the tyranny of love? Or; per


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Virginia Woolf 

haps; the top of an omnibus bound for some remote place 
such as Camberwell; or Sidcup; or the Welsh Harp would 
suit her better。 She noticed these names painted on little 
boards for the first time for weeks。 Or should she return 
to her room; and spend the night working out the details 
of a very enlightened and ingenious scheme? Of all possibilities 
this appealed to her most; and brought to mind 
the fire; the lamplight; the steady glow which had seemed 
lit in the place where a more passionate flame had once 
burnt。 

Now Katharine stopped; and Mary woke to the fact that 
instead of having a goal she had evidently none。 She 
paused at the edge of the crossing; and looked this way 
and that; and finally made as if in the direction of 
Haverstock Hill。 

“Look here—where are you going?” Mary cried; catching 
her by the hand。 “We must take that cab and go home。” 
She hailed a cab and insisted that Katharine should get in; 
while she directed the driver to take them to Cheyne Walk。 

Katharine submitted。 “Very well;” she said。 “We may as 
well go there as anywhere else。” 

A gloom seemed to have fallen on her。 She lay back in 
her corner; silent and apparently exhausted。 Mary; in spite 
of her own preoccupation; was struck by her pallor and 
her attitude of dejection。 

“I’m sure we shall find him;” she said more gently than 
she had yet spoken。 

“It may be too late;” Katharine replied。 Without understanding 
her; Mary began to pity her for what she was 
suffering。 

“Nonsense;” she said; taking her hand and rubbing it。 
“If we don’t find him there we shall find him somewhere 
else。” 

“But suppose he’s walking about the streets—for hours 
and hours?” 

She leant forward and looked out of the window。 

“He may refuse ever to speak to me again;” she said in 
a low voice; almost to herself。 

The exaggeration was so immense that Mary did not 
attempt to cope with it; save by keeping hold of 
Katharine’s wrist。 She half expected that Katharine might 
open the door suddenly and jump out。 Perhaps Katharine 

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Night and Day 

perceived the purpose with which her hand was held。 

“Don’t be frightened;” she said; with a little laugh。 “I’m 
not going to jump out of the cab。 It wouldn’t do much 
good after all。” 

Upon this; Mary ostentatiously withdrew her hand。 

“I ought to have apologized;” Katharine continued; with 
an effort; “for bringing you into all this business; I haven’t 
told you half; either。 I’m no longer engaged to William 
Rodney。 He is to marry Cassandra Otway。 It’s
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