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第11章

[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第11章


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quiet。 Mary was led to think of the heights of a Sussex 
down; and the swelling green circle of some camp of ancient 
warriors。 The moonlight would be falling there so 
peacefully now; and she could fancy the rough pathway 
of silver upon the wrinkled skin of the sea。 

“And here we are;” she said; half aloud; half satirically; 
yet with evident pride; “talking about art。” 

She pulled a basket containing balls of differently colored 
wools and a pair of stockings which needed darning 

towards her; and began to set her fingers to work; while 
her mind; reflecting the lassitude of her body; went on 
perversely; conjuring up visions of solitude and quiet; 
and she pictured herself laying aside her knitting and 
walking out on to the down; and hearing nothing but the 
sheep cropping the grass close to the roots; while the 
shadows of the little trees moved very slightly this way 
and that in the moonlight; as the breeze went through 
them。 But she was perfectly conscious of her present situation; 
and derived some pleasure from the reflection that 
she could rejoice equally in solitude; and in the presence 
of the many very different people who were now making 
their way; by divers paths; across London to the spot 
where she was sitting。 

As she ran her needle in and out of the wool; she thought 
of the various stages in her own life which made her 
present position seem the culmination of successive 
miracles。 She thought of her clerical father in his country 
parsonage; and of her mother’s death; and of her own 
determination to obtain education; and of her college 
life; which had merged; not so very long ago; in the won


38 



Virginia Woolf 

derful maze of London; which still seemed to her; in spite 
of her constitutional levelheadedness; like a vast electric 
light; casting radiance upon the myriads of men and 
women who crowded round it。 And here she was at the 
very center of it all; that center which was constantly in 
the minds of people in remote Canadian forests and on 
the plains of India; when their thoughts turned to England。 
The nine mellow strokes; by which she was now 
apprised of the hour; were a message from the great clock 
at Westminster itself。 As the last of them died away; there 
was a firm knocking on her own door; and she rose and 
opened it。 She returned to the room; with a look of steady 
pleasure in her eyes; and she was talking to Ralph Denham; 
who followed her。 

“Alone?” he said; as if he were pleasantly surprised by 
that fact。 

“I am sometimes alone;” she replied。 

“But you expect a great many people;” he added; looking 
round him。 “It’s like a room on the stage。 Who is it 
tonight?” 

“William Rodney; upon the Elizabethan use of meta


phor。 I expect a good solid paper; with plenty of quotations 
from the classics。” 

Ralph warmed his hands at the fire; which was flapping 
bravely in the grate; while Mary took up her stocking 
again。 

“I suppose you are the only woman in London who darns 
her own stockings;” he observed。 

“I’m only one of a great many thousands really;” she 
replied; “though I must admit that I was thinking myself 
very remarkable when you came in。 And now that you’re 
here I don’t think myself remarkable at all。 How horrid of 
you! But I’m afraid you’re much more remarkable than I 
am。 You’ve done much more than I’ve done。” 

“If that’s your standard; you’ve nothing to be proud 
of;” said Ralph grimly。 

“Well; I must reflect with Emerson that it’s being and 
not doing that matters;” she continued。 

“Emerson?” Ralph exclaimed; with derision。 “You don’t 
mean to say you read Emerson?” 

“Perhaps it wasn’t Emerson; but why shouldn’t I read 
Emerson?” she asked; with a tinge of anxiety。 

39 



Night and Day 

“There’s no reason that I know of。 It’s the bination 
that’s odd—books and stockings。 The bination is very 
odd。” But it seemed to remend itself to him。 Mary gave 
a little laugh; expressive of happiness; and the particular 
stitches that she was now putting into her work appeared 
to her to be done with singular grace and felicity。 She held 
out the stocking and looked at it approvingly。 

“You always say that;” she said。 “I assure you it’s a 
mon ‘bination;’ as you call it; in the houses of 
the clergy。 The only thing that’s odd about me is that I 
enjoy them both—Emerson and the stocking。” 

A knock was heard; and Ralph exclaimed: 

“Damn those people! I wish they weren’t ing!” 

“It’s only Mr。 Turner; on the floor below;” said Mary; and 
she felt grateful to Mr。 Turner for having alarmed Ralph; 
and for having given a false alarm。 

“Will there be a crowd?” Ralph asked; after a pause。 

“There’ll be the Morrises and the Crashaws; and Dick 
Osborne; and Septimus; and all that set。 Katharine Hilbery 
is ing; by the way; so William Rodney told me。” 

“Katharine Hilbery!” Ralph exclaimed。 

“You know her?” Mary asked; with some surprise。 

“I went to a teaparty at her house。” 

Mary pressed him to tell her all about it; and Ralph was 
not at all unwilling to exhibit proofs of the extent of his 
knowledge。 He described the scene with certain additions 
and exaggerations which interested Mary very much。 

“But; in spite of what you say; I do admire her;” she 
said。 “I’ve only seen her once or twice; but she seems to 
me to be what one calls a ‘personality。’” 

“I didn’t mean to abuse her。 I only felt that she wasn’t 
very sympathetic to me。” 

“They say she’s going to marry that queer creature 
Rodney。” 

“Marry Rodney? Then she must be more deluded than I 
thought her。” 

“Now that’s my door; all right;” Mary exclaimed; carefully 
putting her wools away; as a succession of knocks 
reverberated unnecessarily; acpanied by a sound of 
people stamping their feet and laughing。 A moment later 
the room was full of young men and women; who came in 
with a peculiar look of expectation; exclaimed “Oh!” when 

40 



Virginia Woolf 

they saw Denham; and then stood still; gaping rather 
foolishly。 

The room very soon contained between twenty and thirty 
people; who found seats for the most part upon the floor; 
occupying the mattresses; and hunching themselves together 
into triangular shapes。 They were all young and 
some of them seemed to make a protest by their hair and 
dress; and something somber and truculent in the expression 
of their faces; against the more normal type; 
who would have passed unnoticed in an omnibus or an 
underground railway。 It was notable that the talk was 
confined to groups; and was; at first; entirely spasmodic 
in character; and muttered in undertones as if the speakers 
were suspicious of their fellowguests。 

Katharine Hilbery came in rather late; and took up a 
position on the floor; with her back against the wall。 She 
looked round quickly; recognized about half a dozen 
people; to whom she nodded; but failed to see Ralph; or; 
if so; had already forgotten to attach any name to him。 
But in a second these heterogeneous elements were all 
united by the voice of Mr。 Rodney; who suddenly strode 

up to the table; and began very rapidly in highstrained 
tones: 

“In undertaking to speak of the Elizabethan use of metaphor 
in poetry—” 

All the different heads swung slightly or steadied themselves 
into a position in which they could gaze straight 
at the speaker’s face; and the same rather solemn expression 
was visible on all of them。 But; at the same time; 
even the faces that were most exposed to view; and therefore 
most tautly under control; disclosed a sudden impulsive 
tremor which; unless directly checked; would have 
developed into an outburst of laughter。 The first sight of 
Mr。 Rodney was irresistibly ludicrous。 He was very red in 
the face; whether from the cool November night or nervousness; 
and every movement; from the way he wrung 
his hands to the way he jerked his head to right and left; 
as though a vision drew him now to the door; now to the 
window; bespoke his horrible disfort under the stare 
of so many eyes。 He 

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