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第33章

[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第33章


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mind ranged hither and thither! Suddenly a picture presented 
itself before her; without any effort on her part as 
pictures will; of herself in these very rooms; she had e 
in from a lecture; and she held a pile of books in her 

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Virginia Woolf 

hand; scientific books; and books about mathematics and 
astronomy which she had mastered。 She put them down 
on the table over there。 It was a picture plucked from her 
life two or three years hence; when she was married to 
William; but here she checked herself abruptly。 

She could not entirely forget William’s presence; because; 
in spite of his efforts to control himself; his nervousness 
was apparent。 On such occasions his eyes protruded 
more than ever; and his face had more than ever 
the appearance of being covered with a thin crackling 
skin; through which every flush of his volatile blood 
showed itself instantly。 By this time he had shaped so 
many sentences and rejected them; felt so many impulses 
and subdued them; that he was a uniform scarlet。 

“You may say you don’t read books;” he remarked; “but; 
all the same; you know about them。 Besides; who wants 
you to be learned? Leave that to the poor devils who’ve 
got nothing better to do。 You—you—ahem!—” 

“Well; then; why don’t you read me something before I 
go?” said Katharine; looking at her watch。 

“Katharine; you’ve only just e! Let me see now; what 

have I got to show you?” He rose; and stirred about the 
papers on his table; as if in doubt; he then picked up a 
manuscript; and after spreading it smoothly upon his knee; 
he looked up at Katharine suspiciously。 He caught her 
smiling。 

“I believe you only ask me to read out of kindness;” he 
burst out。 “Let’s find something else to talk about。 Who 
have you been seeing?” 

“I don’t generally ask things out of kindness;” Katharine 
observed; “however; if you don’t want to read; you 
needn’t。” 

William gave a queer snort of exasperation; and opened 
his manuscript once more; though he kept his eyes upon 
her face as he did so。 No face could have been graver or 
more judicial。 

“One can trust you; certainly; to say unpleasant things;” 
he said; smoothing out the page; clearing his throat; and 
reading half a stanza to himself。 “Ahem! The Princess is 
lost in the wood; and she hears the sound of a horn。 
(This would all be very pretty on the stage; but I can’t 
get the effect here。) Anyhow; Sylvano enters; acpa


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nied by the rest of the gentlemen of Gratian’s court。 I 
begin where he soliloquizes。” He jerked his head and began 
to read。 

Although Katharine had just disclaimed any knowledge 
of literature; she listened attentively。 At least; she listened 
to the first twentyfive lines attentively; and then 
she frowned。 Her attention was only aroused again when 
Rodney raised his finger—a sign; she knew; that the meter 
was about to change。 

His theory was that every mood has its meter。 His mastery 
of meters was very great; and; if the beauty of a 
drama depended upon the variety of measures in which 
the personages speak; Rodney’s plays must have challenged 
the works of Shakespeare。 Katharine’s ignorance 
of Shakespeare did not prevent her from feeling fairly 
certain that plays should not produce a sense of chill 
stupor in the audience; such as overcame her as the lines 
flowed on; sometimes long and sometimes short; but always 
delivered with the same lilt of voice; which seemed 
to nail each line firmly on to the same spot in the hearer’s 
brain。 Still; she reflected; these sorts of skill are almost 

exclusively masculine; women neither practice them nor 
know how to value them; and one’s husband’s proficiency 
in this direction might legitimately increase one’s respect 
for him; since mystification is no bad basis for respect。 
No one could doubt that William was a scholar。 The reading 
ended with the finish of the Act; Katharine had prepared 
a little speech。 

“That seems to me extremely well written; William; although; 
of course; I don’t know enough to criticize in 
detail。” 

“But it’s the skill that strikes you—not the emotion?” 

“In a fragment like that; of course; the skill strikes one 
most。” 

“But perhaps—have you time to listen to one more 
short piece? the scene between the lovers? There’s some 
real feeling in that; I think。 Denham agrees that it’s the 
best thing I’ve done。” 

“You’ve read it to Ralph Denham?” Katharine inquired; 
with surprise。 “He’s a better judge than I am。 What did 
he say?” 

“My dear Katharine;” Rodney exclaimed; “I don’t ask 

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Virginia Woolf 

you for criticism; as I should ask a scholar。 I dare say 
there are only five men in England whose opinion of my 
work matters a straw to me。 But I trust you where feeling 
is concerned。 I had you in my mind often when I was 
writing those scenes。 I kept asking myself; ‘Now is this 
the sort of thing Katharine would like?’ I always think of 
you when I’m writing; Katharine; even when it’s the sort 
of thing you wouldn’t know about。 And I’d rather—yes; I 
really believe I’d rather—you thought well of my writing 
than any one in the world。” 

This was so genuine a tribute to his trust in her that 
Katharine was touched。 

“You think too much of me altogether; William;” she 
said; forgetting that she had not meant to speak in this 
way。 

“No; Katharine; I don’t;” he replied; replacing his manuscript 
in the drawer。 “It does me good to think of you。” 

So quiet an answer; followed as it was by no expression 
of love; but merely by the statement that if she must go 
he would take her to the Strand; and would; if she could 
wait a moment; change his dressinggown for a coat; 

moved her to the warmest feeling of affection for him 
that she had yet experienced。 While he changed in the 
next room; she stood by the bookcase; taking down books 
and opening them; but reading nothing on their pages。 

She felt certain that she would marry Rodney。 How could 
one avoid it? How could one find fault with it? Here she 
sighed; and; putting the thought of marriage away; fell 
into a dream state; in which she became another person; 
and the whole world seemed changed。 Being a frequent 
visitor to that world; she could find her way there 
unhesitatingly。 If she had tried to analyze her impressions; 
she would have said that there dwelt the realities 
of the appearances which figure in our world; so direct; 
powerful; and unimpeded were her sensations there; pared 
with those called forth in actual life。 There dwelt 
the things one might have felt; had there been cause; 
the perfect happiness of which here we taste the fragment; 
the beauty seen here in flying glimpses only。 No 
doubt much of the furniture of this world was drawn directly 
from the past; and even from the England of the 
Elizabethan age。 However the embellishment of this imagi


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Night and Day 

nary world might change; two qualities were constant in 
it。 It was a place where feelings were liberated from the 
constraint which the real world puts upon them; and the 
process of awakenment was always marked by resignation 
and a kind of stoical acceptance of facts。 She met no 
acquaintance there; as Denham did; miraculously transfigured; 
she played no heroic part。 But there certainly 
she loved some magnanimous hero; and as they swept 
together among the leafhung trees of an unknown world; 
they shared the feelings which came fresh and fast as the 
waves on the shore。 But the sands of her liberation were 
running fast; even through the forest branches came 
sounds of Rodney moving things on his dressingtable; 
and Katharine woke herself from this excursion by shutting 
the cover of the book she was holding; and replacing 
it in the bookshelf。 

“William;” she said; speaking rather faintly at first; like 
one sending a voice from sleep to reach the living。 “William;” 
she repeated firmly; “if you still want me to marry 
you; I will。” 

Perhaps it was that no man could expect to have the 

most momen

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