[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第68章

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playful；　and　yet　did　no　injury　to　a　cause　which　he　had　
near　at　heart；　when　he　heard　Katharine　upon　the　stairs。　
A　moment　later　it　was　plain　that　he　had　been　mistaken；　
it　was　not　Katharine；　but　he　could　not　settle　himself　to　
his　letter。　His　temper　had　changed　from　one　of　urbane　
contentment—indeed　of　delicious　expansion—to　one　of　
uneasiness　and　expectation。　The　dinner　was　brought　in；　
and　had　to　be　set　by　the　fire　to　keep　hot。　It　was　now　a　
quarter　of　an　hour　beyond　the　specified　time。　He　bethought　
him　of　a　piece　of　news　which　had　depressed　him　
in　the　earlier　part　of　the　day。　Owing　to　the　illness　of　one　
of　his　fellowclerks；　it　was　likely　that　he　would　get　no　
holiday　until　later　in　the　year；　which　would　mean　the　
postponement　of　their　marriage。　But　this　possibility；　after　
all；　was　not　so　disagreeable　as　the　probability　which　
forced　itself　upon　him　with　every　tick　of　the　clock　that　
Katharine　had　pletely　forgotten　her　engagement。　Such　
things　had　happened　less　frequently　since　Christmas；　but　
what　if　they　were　going　to　begin　to　happen　again？　What　
if　their　marriage　should　turn　out；　as　she　had　said；　a　farce？　
He　acquitted　her　of　any　wish　to　hurt　him　wantonly；　but　

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Virginia　Woolf　

there　was　something　in　her　character　which　made　it　impossible　
for　her　to　help　hurting　people。　Was　she　cold？　
Was　she　selfabsorbed？　He　tried　to　fit　her　with　each　of　
these　descriptions；　but　he　had　to　own　that　she　puzzled　
him。　

“There　are　so　many　things　that　she　doesn’t　understand；”　
he　reflected；　glancing　at　the　letter　to　Cassandra　which　he　
had　begun　and　laid　aside。　What　prevented　him　from　finishing　
the　letter　which　he　had　so　much　enjoyed　beginning？　
The　reason　was　that　Katharine　might；　at　any　moment；　
enter　the　room。　The　thought；　implying　his　bondage　
to　her；　irritated　him　acutely。　It　occurred　to　him　that　
he　would　leave　the　letter　lying　open　for　her　to　see；　and　
he　would　take　the　opportunity　of　telling　her　that　he　had　
sent　his　play　to　Cassandra　for　her　to　criticize。　Possibly；　
but　not　by　any　means　certainly；　this　would　annoy　her—　
and　as　he　reached　the　doubtful　fort　of　this　conclusion；　
there　was　a　knock　on　the　door　and　Katharine　came　
in。　They　kissed　each　other　coldly　and　she　made　no　apology　
for　being　late。　Nevertheless；　her　mere　presence　moved　
him　strangely；　but　he　was　determined　that　this　should　

not　weaken　his　resolution　to　make　some　kind　of　stand　
against　her；　to　get　at　the　truth　about　her。　He　let　her　
make　her　own　disposition　of　clothes　and　busied　himself　
with　the　plates。　

“I’ve　got　a　piece　of　news　for　you；　Katharine；”　he　said　
directly　they　sat　down　to　table；　“I　shan’t　get　my　holiday　
in　April。　We　shall　have　to　put　off　our　marriage。”　

He　rapped　the　words　out　with　a　certain　degree　of　briskness。　
Katharine　started　a　little；　as　if　the　announcement　
disturbed　her　thoughts。　

“That　won’t　make　any　difference；　will　it？　I　mean　the　
lease　isn’t　signed；”　she　replied。　“But　why？　What　has　happened？”　


He　told　her；　in　an　offhand　way；　how　one　of　his　fellow
clerks　had　broken　down；　and　might　have　to　be　away　for　
months；　six　months　even；　in　which　case　they　would　have　
to　think　over　their　position。　He　said　it　in　a　way　which　
struck　her；　at　last；　as　oddly　casual。　She　looked　at　him。　
There　was　no　outward　sign　that　he　was　annoyed　with　her。　
Was　she　well　dressed？　She　thought　sufficiently　so。　Perhaps　
she　was　late？　She　looked　for　a　clock。　

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Night　and　Day　

“It’s　a　good　thing　we　didn’t　take　the　house　then；”　she　
repeated　thoughtfully。　

“It’ll　mean；　too；　I’m　afraid；　that　I　shan’t　be　as　free　for　
a　considerable　time　as　I　have　been；”　he　continued。　She　
had　time　to　reflect　that　she　gained　something　by　all　this；　
though　it　was　too　soon　to　determine　what。　But　the　light　
which　had　been　burning　with　such　intensity　as　she　came　
along　was　suddenly　overclouded；　as　much　by　his　manner　
as　by　his　news。　She　had　been　prepared　to　meet　opposition；　
which　is　simple　to　encounter　pared　with—she　
did　not　know　what　it　was　that　she　had　to　encounter。　The　
meal　passed　in　quiet；　wellcontrolled　talk　about　indifferent　
things。　Music　was　not　a　subject　about　which　she　knew　
anything；　but　she　liked　him　to　tell　her　things；　and　could；　
she　mused；　as　he　talked；　fancy　the　evenings　of　married　
life　spent　thus；　over　the　fire；　spent　thus；　or　with　a　book；　
perhaps；　for　then　she　would　have　time　to　read　her　books；　
and　to　grasp　firmly　with　every　muscle　of　her　unused　mind　
what　she　longed　to　know。　The　atmosphere　was　very　free。　
Suddenly　William　broke　off。　She　looked　up　apprehensively；　
brushing　aside　these　thoughts　with　annoyance。　

“Where　should　I　address　a　letter　to　Cassandra？”　he　asked　
her。　It　was　obvious　again　that　William　had　some　meaning　
or　other　tonight；　or　was　in　some　mood。　“We’ve　struck　up　
a　friendship；”　he　added。　

“She’s　at　home；　I　think；”　Katharine　replied。　

“They　keep　her　too　much　at　home；”　said　William。　“Why　
don’t　you　ask　her　to　stay　with　you；　and　let　her　hear　a　
little　good　music？　I’ll　just　finish　what　I　was　saying；　if　you　
don’t　mind；　because　I’m　particularly　anxious　that　she　
should　hear　tomorrow。”　

Katharine　sank　back　in　her　chair；　and　Rodney　took　the　
paper　on　his　knees；　and　went　on　with　his　sentence。　“Style；　
you　know；　is　what　we　tend　to　neglect—”；　but　he　was　far　
more　conscious　of　Katharine’s　eye　upon　him　than　of　what　
he　was　saying　about　style。　He　knew　that　she　was　looking　
at　him；　but　whether　with　irritation　or　indifference　he　
could　not　guess。　

In　truth；　she　had　fallen　sufficiently　into　his　trap　to　feel　
unfortably　roused　and　disturbed　and　unable　to　proceed　
on　the　lines　laid　down　for　herself。　This　indifferent；　
if　not　hostile；　attitude　on　William’s　part　made　it　impos


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Virginia　Woolf　

sible　to　break　off　without　animosity；　largely　and　pletely。　
Infinitely　preferable　was　Mary’s　state；　she　thought；　
where　there　was　a　simple　thing　to　do　and　one　did　it。　In　
fact；　she　could　not　help　supposing　that　some　littleness　
of　nature　had　a　part　in　all　the　refinements；　reserves；　and　
subtleties　of　feeling　for　which　her　friends　and　family　were　
so　distinguished。　For　example；　although　she　liked　
Cassandra　well　enough；　her　fantastic　method　of　life　struck　
her　as　purely　frivolous；　now　it　was　socialism；　now　it　was　
silkworms；　now　it　was　music—which　last　she　supposed　
was　the　cause　of　William’s　sudden　interest　in　her。　Never　
before　had　William　wasted　the　minutes　of　her　presence　in　
writing　his　letters。　With　a　curious　sense　of　light　opening　
where　all；　hitherto；　had　been　opaque；　it　dawned　upon　
her　that；　after　all；　possibly；　yes；　probably；　nay；　certainly；　
the　devotion　which　she　had　almost　wearily　taken　for　
granted　existed　in　a　much　slighter　degree　than　she　had　
suspected；　or　existed　no　longer。　She　looked　at　him　attentively　
as　if　this　discovery　of　hers　must　show　traces　in　his　
face。　Never　had　she　seen　so　much　to　respect　in　his　appearance；　
so　much　that　attracted　her　by　its　sensitiveness　

and　intelligence；　although　she　saw　these　qualities　as　if　
they　were　those　one　responds　to；　dumbly；　in　the　face　of　a　
stranger。　The　head　bent　over　the　paper；　thoughtful　as　
usual；　had　now　a　posure　which　seemed　somehow　to　
place　it　at　a　distance；　like　a　face　seen　talking　to　some　
one　else　behind　glass。　

He　wrote　on；　without　raising　his　eyes。　She　would　have　
spoken；　but　could　not　bring　herself　to　ask　him　for　signs　
of　affection　which　she　had　no　right　to　claim。　The　conviction　
that　he　was　thus　strange　to　her　filled　her　with　despondency；　
and　illustrated　quite　beyond　doubt　the　infinite　
loneliness　of　human　beings。　She　had　never　felt　the　
truth　of　this　so　strongly　before。　She　looked　away　into　the　
fire；　it　seemed　to　her　that　even　physically　they　were　now　
scarcely　within　speaking　distance；　and　spiritually　there　
was　certainly　no　human　being　with　whom　she　could　claim　
radeship；　no　dream　that　satisfied　her　as　she　was　used　
to　be　satisfied；　nothing　remained　in　whose　reality　she　
could　believe；　save　those　abstract　ideas—figures；　laws；　
stars；　facts；　which　she　could　hardly　hold　to　for　lack　of　
knowledge　and　a　kind　of　shame。　

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Night　and　D