[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第35章
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a joyful recognition of the truth that human nature surpasses;
in its beauty; all that our wildest dreams bring us
hints of。
Katharine came into the room a moment later。 He stood
watching her e towards him; and thought her more
beautiful and strange than his dream of her; for the real
Katharine could speak the words which seemed to crowd
behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes; and
the monest sentence would be flashed on by this
immortal light。 And she overflowed the edges of the dream;
he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast
snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger。
“My mother wants me to tell you;” she said; “that she
hopes you have begun your poem。 She says every one
ought to write poetry… 。 All my relations write poetry;”
she went on。 “I can’t bear to think of it sometimes—
because; of course; it’s none of it any good。 But then one
needn’t read it—”
“You don’t encourage me to write a poem;” said Ralph。
“But you’re not a poet; too; are you?” she inquired;
turning upon him with a laugh。
“Should I tell you if I were?”
“Yes。 Because I think you speak the truth;” she said;
searching him for proof of this apparently; with eyes now
almost impersonally direct。 It would be easy; Ralph
thought; to worship one so far removed; and yet of so
straight a nature; easy to submit recklessly to her; without
thought of future pain。
“Are you a poet?” she demanded。 He felt that her question
had an unexplained weight of meaning behind it; as
if she sought an answer to a question that she did not
ask。
“No。 I haven’t written any poetry for years;” he replied。
“But all the same; I don’t agree with you。 I think it’s the
only thing worth doing。”
“Why do you say that?” she asked; almost with impatience;
tapping her spoon two or three times against the
side of her cup。
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“Why?” Ralph laid hands on the first words that came
to mind。 “Because; I suppose; it keeps an ideal alive which
might die otherwise。”
A curious change came over her face; as if the flame of
her mind were subdued; and she looked at him ironically
and with the expression which he had called sad before;
for want of a better name for it。
“I don’t know that there’s much sense in having ideals;”
she said。
“But you have them;” he replied energetically。 “Why do we
call them ideals? It’s a stupid word。 Dreams; I mean—”
She followed his words with parted lips; as though to
answer eagerly when he had done; but as he said; “Dreams;
I mean;” the door of the drawingroom swung open; and
so remained for a perceptible instant。 They both held
themselves silent; her lips still parted。
Far off; they heard the rustle of skirts。 Then the owner
of the skirts appeared in the doorway; which she almost
filled; nearly concealing the figure of a very much smaller
lady who acpanied her。
“My aunts!” Katharine murmured; under her breath。 Her
tone had a hint of tragedy in it; but no less; Ralph thought;
than the situation required。 She addressed the larger lady
as Aunt Millicent; the smaller was Aunt Celia; Mrs。 Milvain;
who had lately undertaken the task of marrying Cyril to
his wife。 Both ladies; but Mrs。 Cosham (Aunt Millicent) in
particular; had that look of heightened; smoothed;
incarnadined existence which is proper to elderly ladies
paying calls in London about five o’clock in the afternoon。
Portraits by Romney; seen through glass; have something
of their pink; mellow look; their blooming softness;
as of apricots hanging upon a red wall in the afternoon
sun。 Mrs。 Cosham was so appareled with hanging muffs;
chains; and swinging draperies that it was impossible to
detect the shape of a human being in the mass of brown
and black which filled the armchair。 Mrs。 Milvain was a
much slighter figure; but the same doubt as to the precise
lines of her contour filled Ralph; as he regarded them;
with dismal foreboding。 What remark of his would ever
reach these fabulous and fantastic characters?—for there
was something fantastically unreal in the curious swayings
and noddings of Mrs。 Cosham; as if her equipment in
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Night and Day
cluded a large wire spring。 Her voice had a highpitched;
cooing note; which prolonged words and cut them short
until the English language seemed no longer fit for mon
purposes。 In a moment of nervousness; so Ralph
thought; Katharine had turned on innumerable electric
lights。 But Mrs。 Cosham had gained impetus (perhaps her
swaying movements had that end in view) for sustained
speech; and she now addressed Ralph deliberately and
elaborately。
“I e from Woking; Mr。 Popham。 You may well ask
me; why Woking? and to that I answer; for perhaps the
hundredth time; because of the sunsets。 We went there
for the sunsets; but that was fiveandtwenty years ago。
Where are the sunsets now? Alas! There is no sunset now
nearer than the South Coast。” Her rich and romantic notes
were acpanied by a wave of a long white hand; which;
when waved; gave off a flash of diamonds; rubies; and
emeralds。 Ralph wondered whether she more resembled
an elephant; with a jeweled headdress; or a superb cockatoo;
balanced insecurely upon its perch; and pecking capriciously
at a lump of sugar。
“Where are the sunsets now?” she repeated。 “Do you
find sunsets now; Mr。 Popham?”
“I live at Highgate;” he replied。
“At Highgate? Yes; Highgate has its charms; your Uncle
John lived at Highgate;” she jerked in the direction of
Katharine。 She sank her head upon her breast; as if for a
moment’s meditation; which past; she looked up and observed:
“I dare say there are very pretty lanes in Highgate。
I can recollect walking with your mother; Katharine;
through lanes blossoming with wild hawthorn。 But where
is the hawthorn now? You remember that exquisite description
in De Quincey; Mr。 Popham?—but I forget; you;
in your generation; with all your activity and enlightenment;
at which I can only marvel”—here she displayed
both her beautiful white hands—”do not read De Quincey。
You have your Belloc; your Chesterton; your Bernard
Shaw—why should you read De Quincey?”
“But I do read De Quincey;” Ralph protested; “more
than Belloc and Chesterton; anyhow。”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs。 Cosham; with a gesture of
surprise and relief mingled。 “You are; then; a ‘rara avis’ in
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Virginia Woolf
your generation。 I am delighted to meet anyone who reads
De Quincey。”
Here she hollowed her hand into a screen; and; leaning
towards Katharine; inquired; in a very audible whisper;
“Does your friend write?”
“Mr。 Denham;” said Katharine; with more than her usual
clearness and firmness; “writes for the Review。 He is a
lawyer。”
“The cleanshaven lips; showing the expression of the
mouth! I recognize them at once。 I always feel at home
with lawyers; Mr。 Denham—”
“They used to e about so much in the old days;”
Mrs。 Milvain interposed; the frail; silvery notes of her
voice falling with the sweet tone of an old bell。
“You say you live at Highgate;” she continued。 “I wonder
whether you happen to know if there is an old house
called Tempest Lodge still in existence—an old white
house in a garden?”
Ralph shook his head; and she sighed。
“Ah; no; it must have been pulled down by this time;
with all the other old houses。 There were such pretty
lanes in those days。 That was how your uncle met your
Aunt Emily; you know;” she addressed Katharine。 “They
walked home through the lanes。”
“A sprig of May in her bon;” Mrs。 Cosham ejaculated;
reminiscently。
“And next Sunday he had violets in his buttonhole。 And
that was how we guessed。”
Katharine laughed。 She looked at Ralph。 His eyes were
meditative; and she wondered what he found in this old
gossip to make him ponder so contentedly。 She felt; she
hardly knew why; a curious pity for him。
“Uncle John—yes; ‘poor John;’ you always called him。
Why was that?” she asked; to make them go on talki