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第117章

[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第117章


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spoke of him。” 

Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately。 
Then she said gravely: 

“I’m not going to marry William。 And then there’s 
Cassandra—” 

“Yes; there’s Cassandra;” said Mrs。 Hilbery。 “I own I was 
a little grudging at first; but; after all; she plays the 
piano so beautifully。 Do tell me; Katharine;” she asked 
impulsively; “where did you go that evening she played 
Mozart; and you thought I was asleep?” 

Katharine recollected with difficulty。 

“To Mary Datchet’s;” she remembered。 

“Ah!” said Mrs。 Hilbery; with a slight note of disappointment 
in her voice。 “I had my little romance—my 
little speculation。” She looked at her daughter。 Katharine 
faltered beneath that innocent and perating gaze; she 
flushed; turned away; and then looked up with very bright 
eyes。 

“I’m not in love with Ralph Denham;” she said。 

“Don’t marry unless you’re in love!” said Mrs。 Hilbery 
very quickly。 “But;” she added; glancing momentarily at 
her daughter; “aren’t there different ways; Katharine— 
different—?” 

“We want to meet as often as we like; but to be free;” 
Katharine continued。 

“To meet here; to meet in his house; to meet in the 
street。” Mrs。 Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were 
trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear。 It was 
plain that she had her sources of information; and; indeed; 
her bag was stuffed with what she called “kind 
letters” from the pen of her sisterinlaw。 

“Yes。 Or to stay away in the country;” Katharine concluded。 


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Virginia Woolf 

Mrs。 Hilbery paused; looked unhappy; and sought inspiration 
from the window。 

“What a fort he was in that shop—how he took me 
and found the ruins at once—how safe I felt with him—” 

“Safe? Oh; no; he’s fearfully rash—he’s always taking 
risks。 He wants to throw up his profession and live in a 
little cottage and write books; though he hasn’t a penny 
of his own; and there are any number of sisters and brothers 
dependent on him。” 

“Ah; he has a mother?” Mrs。 Hilbery inquired。 

“Yes。 Rather a finelooking old lady; with white hair。” 
Katharine began to describe her visit; and soon Mrs。 
Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of 
excruciating ugliness; which Ralph bore without plaint; 
but that it was evident that every one depended on him; 
and he had a room at the top of the house; with a wonderful 
view over London; and a rook。 

“A wretched old bird in a corner; with half its feathers 
out;” she said; with a tenderness in her voice that seemed 
to miserate the sufferings of humanity while resting 
assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them; 

so that Mrs。 Hilbery could not help exclaiming: 

“But; Katharine; you are in love!” at which Katharine 
flushed; looked startled; as if she had said something 
that she ought not to have said; and shook her head。 

Hastily Mrs。 Hilbery asked for further details of this 
extraordinary house; and interposed a few speculations 
about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane; 
which tided over the disfort of the moment; and drew 
Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions。 In 
truth; she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus 
free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally 
benignant; the mother of her earliest childhood; whose 
silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked。 
Mrs。 Hilbery listened without making any remark for a 
considerable time。 She seemed to draw her conclusions 
rather by looking at her daughter than by listening to 
her; and; if crossexamined; she would probably have given 
a highly inaccurate version of Ralph Denham’s lifehistory 
except that he was penniless; fatherless; and lived 
at Highgate—all of which was much in his favor。 But by 
means of these furtive glances she had assured herself 

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Night and Day 

that Katharine was in a state which gave her; alternately; 

the most exquisite pleasure and the most profound alarm。 

She could not help ejaculating at last: 

“It’s all done in five minutes at a Registry Office nowadays; 
if you think the Church service a little florid—which 
it is; though there are noble things in it。” 

“But we don’t want to be married;” Katharine replied 
emphatically; and added; “Why; after all; isn’t it perfectly 
possible to live together without being married?” 

Again Mrs。 Hilbery looked disposed; and; in her 
trouble; took up the sheets which were lying upon the 
table; and began turning them over this way and that; 
and muttering to herself as she glanced: 

“A plus B minus C equals ‘x y z’。 It’s so dreadfully ugly; 
Katharine。 That’s what I feel—so dreadfully ugly。” 

Katharine took the sheets from her mother’s hand and 
began shuffling them absentmindedly together; for her 
fixed gaze seemed to show that her thoughts were intent 
upon some other matter。 

“Well; I don’t know about ugliness;” she said at length。 

“But he doesn’t ask it of you?” Mrs。 Hilbery exclaimed。 

“Not that grave young man with the steady brown eyes?” 

“He doesn’t ask anything—we neither of us ask anything。” 


“If I could help you; Katharine; by the memory of what 
I felt—” 

“Yes; tell me what you felt。” 

Mrs。 Hilbery; her eyes growing blank; peered down the 
enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which 
the little figures of herself and her husband appeared 
fantastically attired; clasping hands upon a moonlit beach; 
with roses swinging in the dusk。 

“We were in a little boat going out to a ship at night;” 
she began。 “The sun had set and the moon was rising 
over our heads。 There were lovely silver lights upon the 
waves and three green lights upon the steamer in the 
middle of the bay。 Your father’s head looked so grand 
against the mast。 It was life; it was death。 The great sea 
was round us。 It was the voyage for ever and ever。” 

The ancient fairytale fell roundly and harmoniously upon 
Katharine’s ears。 Yes; there was the enormous space of 
the sea; there were the three green lights upon the 

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Virginia Woolf 

steamer; the cloaked figures climbed up on deck。 And so; 
voyaging over the green and purple waters; past the cliffs 
and the sandy lagoons and through pools crowded with 
the masts of ships and the steeples of churches—here 
they were。 The river seemed to have brought them and 
deposited them here at this precise point。 She looked 
admiringly at her mother; that ancient voyager。 

“Who knows;” exclaimed Mrs。 Hilbery; continuing her 
reveries; “where we are bound for; or why; or who has 
sent us; or what we shall find—who knows anything; 
except that love is our faith—love—” she crooned; and 
the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard 
by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in 
order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon。 She would 
have been content for her mother to repeat that word 
almost indefinitely—a soothing word when uttered by 
another; a riveting together of the shattered fragments 
of the world。 But Mrs。 Hilbery; instead of repeating the 
word love; said pleadingly: 

“And you won’t think those ugly thoughts again; will 
you; Katharine?” at which words the ship which Katharine 

had been considering seemed to put into harbor and have 
done with its seafaring。 Yet she was in great need; if not 
exactly of sympathy; of some form of advice; or; at least; 
of the opportunity of setting forth her problems before a 
third person so as to renew them in her own eyes。 

“But then;” she said; ignoring the difficult problem of 
ugliness; “you knew you were in love; but we’re different。 
It seems;” she continued; frowning a little as she tried to 
fix the difficult feeling; “as if something came to an end 
suddenly—gave out—faded—an illusion—as if when we 
think we’re in love we make it up—we imagine what 
doesn’t exist。 That’s why it’s impossible that we should 
ever marry。 Always to be finding the other an illusion; 
and going off and forgetting about them; never 

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