[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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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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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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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