[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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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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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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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