[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第107章

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the　changing　tumult　had　the　inexpressible　fascination　of　
varied　life　pouring　ceaselessly　with　a　purpose　which；　as　
she　looked；　seemed　to　her；　somehow；　the　normal　purpose　
for　which　life　was　framed；　its　plete　indifference　to　
the　individuals；　whom　it　swallowed　up　and　rolled　onwards；　
filled　her　with　at　least　a　temporary　exaltation。　The　blend　
of　daylight　and　of　lamplight　made　her　an　invisible　spectator；　
just　as　it　gave　the　people　who　passed　her　a　semitransparent　
quality；　and　left　the　faces　pale　ivory　ovals　in　

which　the　eyes　alone　were　dark。　They　tended　the　enormous　
rush　of　the　current—the　great　flow；　the　deep　stream；　
the　unquenchable　tide。　She　stood　unobserved　and　absorbed；　
glorying　openly　in　the　rapture　that　had　run　
subterraneously　all　day。　Suddenly　she　was　clutched；　unwilling；　
from　the　outside；　by　the　recollection　of　her　purpose　
in　ing　there。　She　had　e　to　find　Ralph　Denham。　
She　hastily　turned　back　into　Lincoln’s　Inn　Fields；　and　
looked　for　her　landmark—the　light　in　the　three　tall　windows。　
She　sought　in　vain。　The　faces　of　the　houses　had　
now　merged　in　the　general　darkness；　and　she　had　difficulty　
in　determining　which　she　sought。　Ralph’s　three　windows　
gave　back　on　their　ghostly　glass　panels　only　a　reflection　
of　the　gray　and　greenish　sky。　She　rang　the　bell；　
peremptorily；　under　the　painted　name　of　the　firm。　After　
some　delay　she　was　answered　by　a　caretaker；　whose　pail　
and　brush　of　themselves　told　her　that　the　working　day　
was　over　and　the　workers　gone。　Nobody；　save　perhaps　Mr。　
Grateley　himself；　was　left；　she　assured　Katharine；　every　
one　else　had　been　gone　these　ten　minutes。　

The　news　woke　Katharine　pletely。　Anxiety　gained　

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upon　her。　She　hastened　back　into　Kingsway；　looking　at　
people　who　had　miraculously　regained　their　solidity。　She　
ran　as　far　as　the　Tube　station；　overhauling　clerk　after　
clerk；　solicitor　after　solicitor。　Not　one　of　them　even　faintly　
resembled　Ralph　Denham。　More　and　more　plainly　did　she　
see　him；　and　more　and　more　did　he　seem　to　her　unlike　
any　one　else。　At　the　door　of　the　station　she　paused；　and　
tried　to　collect　her　thoughts。　He　had　gone　to　her　house。　
By　taking　a　cab　she　could　be　there　probably　in　advance　
of　him。　But　she　pictured　herself　opening　the　drawing
room　door；　and　William　and　Cassandra　looking　up；　and　
Ralph’s　entrance　a　moment　later；　and　the　glances—the　
insinuations。　No；　she　could　not　face　it。　She　would　write　
him　a　letter　and　take　it　at　once　to　his　house。　She　bought　
paper　and　pencil　at　the　bookstall；　and　entered　an　A。B。C。　
shop；　where；　by　ordering　a　cup　of　coffee；　she　secured　an　
empty　table；　and　began　at　vice　to　write：　

“I　came　to　meet　you　and　I　have　missed　you。　I　could　not　
face　William　and　Cassandra。　They　want　us—”　here　she　
paused。　“They　insist　that　we　are　engaged；”　she　substituted；　
“and　we　couldn’t　talk　at　all；　or　explain　anything。　I　

want—”　Her　wants　were　so　vast；　now　that　she　was　in　
munication　with　Ralph；　that　the　pencil　was　utterly　
inadequate　to　conduct　them　on　to　the　paper；　it　seemed　
as　if　the　whole　torrent　of　Kingsway　had　to　run　down　her　
pencil。　She　gazed　intently　at　a　notice　hanging　on　the　
goldencrusted　wall　opposite。　“…　to　say　all　kinds　of　
things；”　she　added；　writing　each　word　with　the　painstaking　
of　a　child。　But；　when　she　raised　her　eyes　again　to　
meditate　the　next　sentence；　she　was　aware　of　a　waitress；　
whose　expression　intimated　that　it　was　closing　time；　and；　
looking　round；　Katharine　saw　herself　almost　the　last　person　
left　in　the　shop。　She　took　up　her　letter；　paid　her　bill；　
and　found　herself　once　more　in　the　street。　She　would　
now　take　a　cab　to　Highgate。　But　at　that　moment　it　flashed　
upon　her　that　she　could　not　remember　the　address。　This　
check　seemed　to　let　fall　a　barrier　across　a　very　powerful　
current　of　desire。　She　ransacked　her　memory　in　desperation；　
hunting　for　the　name；　first　by　remembering　the　look　
of　the　house；　and　then　by　trying；　in　memory；　to　retrace　
the　words　she　had　written　once；　at　least；　upon　an　envelope。　
The　more　she　pressed　the　farther　the　words　receded。　

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Night　and　Day　

Was　the　house　an　Orchard　Something；　on　the　street　a　
Hill？　She　gave　it　up。　Never；　since　she　was　a　child；　had　she　
felt　anything　like　this　blankness　and　desolation。　There　
rushed　in　upon　her；　as　if　she　were　waking　from　some　
dream；　all　the　consequences　of　her　inexplicable　indolence。　
She　figured　Ralph’s　face　as　he　turned　from　her　door　without　
a　word　of　explanation；　receiving　his　dismissal　as　a　
blow　from　herself；　a　callous　intimation　that　she　did　not　
wish　to　see　him。　She　followed　his　departure　from　her　
door；　but　it　was　far　more　easy　to　see　him　marching　far　
and　fast　in　any　direction　for　any　length　of　time　than　to　
conceive　that　he　would　turn　back　to　Highgate。　Perhaps　
he　would　try　once　more　to　see　her　in　Cheyne　Walk？　It　was　
proof　of　the　clearness　with　which　she　saw　him；　that　she　
started　forward　as　this　possibility　occurred　to　her；　and　
almost　raised　her　hand　to　beckon　to　a　cab。　No；　he　was　
too　proud　to　e　again；　he　rejected　the　desire　and　walked　
on　and　on；　on　and　on—If　only　she　could　read　the　names　
of　those　visionary　streets　down　which　he　passed！　But　her　
imagination　betrayed　her　at　this　point；　or　mocked　her　
with　a　sense　of　their　strangeness；　darkness；　and　distance。　

Indeed；　instead　of　helping　herself　to　any　decision；　she　
only　filled　her　mind　with　the　vast　extent　of　London　and　
the　impossibility　of　finding　any　single　figure　that　wandered　
off　this　way　and　that　way；　turned　to　the　right　and　
to　the　left；　chose　that　dingy　little　back　street　where　the　
children　were　playing　in　the　road；　and　so—She　roused　
herself　impatiently。　She　walked　rapidly　along　Holborn。　
Soon　she　turned　and　walked　as　rapidly　in　the　other　direction。　
This　indecision　was　not　merely　odious；　but　had　something　
that　alarmed　her　about　it；　as　she　had　been　alarmed　
slightly　once　or　twice　already　that　day；　she　felt　unable　to　
cope　with　the　strength　of　her　own　desires。　To　a　person　
controlled　by　habit；　there　was　humiliation　as　well　as　alarm　
in　this　sudden　release　of　what　appeared　to　be　a　very　
powerful　as　well　as　an　unreasonable　force。　An　aching　in　
the　muscles　of　her　right　hand　now　showed　her　that　she　
was　crushing　her　gloves　and　the　map　of　Norfolk　in　a　grip　
sufficient　to　crack　a　more　solid　object。　She　relaxed　her　
grasp；　she　looked　anxiously　at　the　faces　of　the　passersby　
to　see　whether　their　eyes　rested　on　her　for　a　moment　
longer　than　was　natural；　or　with　any　curiosity。　But　hav


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Virginia　Woolf　

ing　smoothed　out　her　gloves；　and　done　what　she　could　to　
look　as　usual；　she　forgot　spectators；　and　was　once　more　
given　up　to　her　desperate　desire　to　find　Ralph　Denham。　
It　was　a　desire　now—wild；　irrational；　unexplained；　resembling　
something　felt　in　childhood。　Once　more　she　
blamed　herself　bitterly　for　her　carelessness。　But　finding　
herself　opposite　the　Tube　station；　she　pulled　herself　up　
and　took　counsel　swiftly；　as　of　old。　It　flashed　upon　her　
that　she　would　go　at　once　to　Mary　Datchet；　and　ask　her　
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；