[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第32章

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Denham　than　she　was　in　love　with　her　poker　or　her　tongs。　
But　probably　these　extreme　passions　are　very　rare；　and　
the　state　of　mind　thus　depicted　belongs　to　the　very　last　
stages　of　love；　when　the　power　to　resist　has　been　eaten　
away；　week　by　week　or　day　by　day。　Like　most　intelligent　
people；　Mary　was　something　of　an　egoist；　to　the　extent；　
that　is；　of　attaching　great　importance　to　what　she　felt；　
and　she　was　by　nature　enough　of　a　moralist　to　like　to　

make　certain；　from　time　to　time；　that　her　feelings　were　
creditable　to　her。　When　Ralph　left　her　she　thought　over　
her　state　of　mind；　and　came　to　the　conclusion　that　it　
would　be　a　good　thing　to　learn　a　language—say　Italian　
or　German。　She　then　went　to　a　drawer；　which　she　had　to　
unlock；　and　took　from　it　certain　deeply　scored　manuscript　
pages。　She　read　them　through；　looking　up　from　her　
reading　every　now　and　then　and　thinking　very　intently　
for　a　few　seconds　about　Ralph。　She　did　her　best　to　verify　
all　the　qualities　in　him　which　gave　rise　to　emotions　in　
her；　and　persuaded　herself　that　she　accounted　reasonably　
for　them　all。　Then　she　looked　back　again　at　her　manuscript；　
and　decided　that　to　write　grammatical　English　prose　
is　the　hardest　thing　in　the　world。　But　she　thought　about　
herself　a　great　deal　more　than　she　thought　about　grammatical　
English　prose　or　about　Ralph　Denham；　and　it　may　
therefore　be　disputed　whether　she　was　in　love；　or；　if　so；　
to　which　branch　of　the　family　her　passion　belonged。　

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Night　and　Day　

CHAPTER　XI　


It’s　life　that　matters；　nothing　but　life—the　process　of　
discovering；　the　everlasting　and　perpetual　process；”　said　
Katharine；　as　she　passed　under　the　archway；　and　so　into　
the　wide　space　of　King’s　Bench　Walk；　“not　the　discovery　
itself　at　all。”　She　spoke　the　last　words　looking　up　at　
Rodney’s　windows；　which　were　a　semilucent　red　color；　in　
her　honor；　as　she　knew。　He　had　asked　her　to　tea　with　
him。　But　she　was　in　a　mood　when　it　is　almost　physically　
disagreeable　to　interrupt　the　stride　of　one’s　thought；　and　
she　walked　up　and　down　two　or　three　times　under　the　
trees　before　approaching　his　staircase。　She　liked　getting　
hold　of　some　book　which　neither　her　father　or　mother　
had　read；　and　keeping　it　to　herself；　and　gnawing　its　contents　
in　privacy；　and　pondering　the　meaning　without　sharing　
her　thoughts　with　any　one；　or　having　to　decide　whether　
the　book　was　a　good　one　or　a　bad　one。　This　evening　she　
had　twisted　the　words　of　Dostoevsky　to　suit　her　mood—　
a　fatalistic　mood—to　proclaim　that　the　process　of　discovery　
was　life；　and　that；　presumably；　the　nature　of　one’s　

goal　mattered　not　at　all。　She　sat　down　for　a　moment　
upon　one　of　the　seats；　felt　herself　carried　along　in　the　
swirl　of　many　things；　decided；　in　her　sudden　way；　that　it　
was　time　to　heave　all　this　thinking　overboard；　and　rose；　
leaving　a　fishmonger’s　basket　on　the　seat　behind　her。　
Two　minutes　later　her　rap　sounded　with　authority　upon　
Rodney’s　door。　

“Well；　William；”　she　said；　“I’m　afraid　I’m　late。”　

It　was　true；　but　he　was　so　glad　to　see　her　that　he　forgot　
his　annoyance。　He　had　been　occupied　for　over　an　hour　in　
making　things　ready　for　her；　and　he　now　had　his　reward　
in　seeing　her　look　right　and　left；　as　she　slipped　her　cloak　
from　her　shoulders；　with　evident　satisfaction；　although　
she　said　nothing。　He　had　seen　that　the　fire　burnt　well；　
jampots　were　on　the　table；　tin　covers　shone　in　the　fender；　
and　the　shabby　fort　of　the　room　was　extreme。　He　was　
dressed　in　his　old　crimson　dressinggown；　which　was　faded　
irregularly；　and　had　bright　new　patches　on　it；　like　the　
paler　grass　which　one　finds　on　lifting　a　stone。　He　made　
the　tea；　and　Katharine　drew　off　her　gloves；　and　crossed　
her　legs　with　a　gesture　that　was　rather　masculine　in　its　

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Virginia　Woolf　

ease。　Nor　did　they　talk　much　until　they　were　smoking　
cigarettes　over　the　fire；　having　placed　their　teacups　upon　
the　floor　between　them。　

They　had　not　met　since　they　had　exchanged　letters　about　
their　relationship。　Katharine’s　answer　to　his　protestation　
had　been　short　and　sensible。　Half　a　sheet　of　notepaper　
contained　the　whole　of　it；　for　she　merely　had　to　say　that　
she　was　not　in　love　with　him；　and　so　could　not　marry　
him；　but　their　friendship　would　continue；　she　hoped；　
unchanged。　She　had　added　a　postscript　in　which　she　
stated；　“I　like　your　son　very　much。”　

So　far　as　William　was　concerned；　this　appearance　of　
ease　was　assumed。　Three　times　that　afternoon　he　had　
dressed　himself　in　a　tailcoat；　and　three　times　he　had　
discarded　it　for　an　old　dressinggown；　three　times　he　had　
placed　his　pearl　tiepin　in　position；　and　three　times　he　
had　removed　it　again；　the　little　lookingglass　in　his　room　
being　the　witness　of　these　changes　of　mind。　The　question　
was；　which　would　Katharine　prefer　on　this　particular　
afternoon　in　December？　He　read　her　note　once　more；　and　
the　postscript　about　the　son　settled　the　matter。　Evi


dently　she　admired　most　the　poet　in　him；　and　as　this；　on　
the　whole；　agreed　with　his　own　opinion；　he　decided　to　
err；　if　anything；　on　the　side　of　shabbiness。　His　demeanor　
was　also　regulated　with　premeditation；　he　spoke　little；　
and　only　on　impersonal　matters；　he　wished　her　to　realize　
that　in　visiting　him　for　the　first　time　alone　she　was　doing　
nothing　remarkable；　although；　in　fact；　that　was　a　point　
about　which　he　was　not　at　all　sure。　

Certainly　Katharine　seemed　quite　unmoved　by　any　disturbing　
thoughts；　and　if　he　had　been　pletely　master　
of　himself；　he　might；　indeed；　have　plained　that　she　
was　a　trifle　absentminded。　The　ease；　the　familiarity　of　
the　situation　alone　with　Rodney；　among　teacups　and　
candles；　had　more　effect　upon　her　than　was　apparent。　
She　asked　to　look　at　his　books；　and　then　at　his　pictures。　
It　was　while　she　held　photograph　from　the　Greek　in　her　
hands　that　she　exclaimed；　impulsively；　if　incongruously：　

“My　oysters！　I　had　a　basket；”　she　explained；　“and　I’ve　
left　it　somewhere。　Uncle　Dudley　dines　with　us　tonight。　
What　in　the　world　have　I　done　with　them？”　

She　rose　and　began　to　wander　about　the　room。　William　

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Night　and　Day　

rose　also；　and　stood　in　front　of　the　fire；　muttering；　“Oysters；　
oysters—your　basket　of　oysters！”　but　though　he　
looked　vaguely　here　and　there；　as　if　the　oysters　might　be　
on　the　top　of　the　bookshelf；　his　eyes　returned　always　to　
Katharine。　She　drew　the　curtain　and　looked　out　among　
the　scanty　leaves　of　the　plarees。　

“I　had　them；”　she　calculated；　“in　the　Strand；　I　sat　on　a　
seat。　Well；　never　mind；”　she　concluded；　turning　back　into　
the　room　abruptly；　“I　dare　say　some　old　creature　is　enjoying　
them　by　this　time。”　

“I　should　have　thought　that　you　never　forgot　anything；”　
William　remarked；　as　they　settled　down　again。　

“That’s　part　of　the　myth　about　me；　I　know；”　Katharine　
replied。　

“And　I　wonder；”　William　proceeded；　with　some　caution；　
“what　the　truth　about　you　is？　But　I　know　this　sort　of　
thing　doesn’t　interest　you；”　he　added　hastily；　with　a　touch　
of　peevishness。　

“No；　it　doesn’t　interest　me　very　much；”　she　replied　candidly。　


“What　shall　we　talk　about　then？”　he　asked。　

She　looked　rather　whimsically　round　the　walls　of　the　
room。　

“However　we　start；　we　end　by　talking　about　the　same　
thing—about　poetry；　I　mean。　I　wonder　if　you　realize；　
William；　that　I’ve　never　read　even　Shakespeare？　It’s　rather　
wonderful　how　I’ve　kept　it　up　all　these　years。”　

“You’ve　kept　it　up　for　ten　years　very　beautifully；　as　far　
as　I’m　concerned；”　he　said。　

“Ten　years？　So　long　as　that？”　

“And　I　don’t　think　it’s　always　bored　you；”　he　added。　

She　looked　into　the　fire　silently。　She　could　not　deny　
that　the　surface　of　her　feeling　was　absolutely　unruffled　
by　anything　in　William’s　character；　on　the　contrary；　she　
felt　certain　that　she　could　deal　with　whatever　turned　up。　
He　gave　her　peace；　in　which　she　could　think　of　things　
that　were　far　removed　from　what　they　talked　about。　Even　
now；　when　he　sat　within　a　yard　of　her；　how　easily　her　
mind　ranged　hither　and　thither！　Suddenly　a　picture　presented　
itself　before　her；　without　any　effort　on　her　par