[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第78章

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Night　and　Day　

even　to　believe　that　they　look　with　us　upon　our　present　
joys　and　sorrows。　He　would　have　understood；　she　thought；　
suddenly；　and　instead　of　laying　her　withered　flowers　upon　
his　shrine；　she　brought　him　her　own　perplexities—perhaps　
a　gift　of　greater　value；　should　the　dead　be　conscious　
of　gifts；　than　flowers　and　incense　and　adoration。　
Doubts；　questionings；　and　despondencies　she　felt；　as　she　
looked　up；　would　be　more　wele　to　him　than　homage；　
and　he　would　hold　them　but　a　very　small　burden　if　she　
gave　him；　also；　some　share　in　what　she　suffered　and　
achieved。　The　depth　of　her　own　pride　and　love　were　not　
more　apparent　to　her　than　the　sense　that　the　dead　asked　
neither　flowers　nor　regrets；　but　a　share　in　the　life　which　
they　had　given　her；　the　life　which　they　had　lived。　

Rodney　found　her　a　moment　later　sitting　beneath　her　
grandfather’s　portrait。　She　laid　her　hand　on　the　seat　next　
her　in　a　friendly　way；　and　said：　

“e　and　sit　down；　William。　How　glad　I　was　you　were　
here！　I　felt　myself　getting　ruder　and　ruder。”　

“You　are　not　good　at　hiding　your　feelings；”　he　returned　
dryly。　

“Oh；　don’t　scold　me—I’ve　had　a　horrid　afternoon。”　She　
told　him　how　she　had　taken　the　flowers　to　Mrs。　McCormick；　
and　how　South　Kensington　impressed　her　as　the　preserve　
of　officers’　widows。　She　described　how　the　door　had　
opened；　and　what　gloomy　avenues　of　busts　and　palm
trees　and　umbrellas　had　been　revealed　to　her。　She　spoke　
lightly；　and　succeeded　in　putting　him　at　his　ease。　Indeed；　
he　rapidly　became　too　much　at　his　ease　to　persist　
in　a　condition　of　cheerful　neutrality。　He　felt　his　posure　
slipping　from　him。　Katharine　made　it　seem　so　natural　
to　ask　her　to　help　him；　or　advise　him；　to　say　straight　
out　what　he　had　in　his　mind。　The　letter　from　Cassandra　
was　heavy　in　his　pocket。　There　was　also　the　letter　to　
Cassandra　lying　on　the　table　in　the　next　room。　The　atmosphere　
seemed　charged　with　Cassandra。　But；　unless　
Katharine　began　the　subject　of　her　own　accord；　he　could　
not　even　hint—he　must　ignore　the　whole　affair；　it　was　
the　part　of　a　gentleman　to　preserve　a　bearing　that　was；　
as　far　as　he　could　make　it；　the　bearing　of　an　undoubting　
lover。　At　intervals　he　sighed　deeply。　He　talked　rather　more　
quickly　than　usual　about　the　possibility　that　some　of　the　

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operas　of　Mozart　would　be　played　in　the　summer。　He　had　
received　a　notice；　he　said；　and　at　once　produced　a　pocketbook　
stuffed　with　papers；　and　began　shuffling　them　in　
search。　He　held　a　thick　envelope　between　his　finger　and　
thumb；　as　if　the　notice　from　the　opera　pany　had　bee　
in　some　way　inseparably　attached　to　it。　

“A　letter　from　Cassandra？”　said　Katharine；　in　the　easiest　
voice　in　the　world；　looking　over　his　shoulder。　“I’ve　just　
written　to　ask　her　to　e　here；　only　I　forgot　to　post　it。”　

He　handed　her　the　envelope　in　silence。　She　took　it；　
extracted　the　sheets；　and　read　the　letter　through。　

The　reading　seemed　to　Rodney　to　take　an　intolerably　
long　time。　

“Yes；”　she　observed　at　length；　“a　very　charming　letter。”　

Rodney’s　face　was　half　turned　away；　as　if　in　bashfulness。　
Her　view　of　his　profile　almost　moved　her　to　laughter。　
She　glanced　through　the　pages　once　more。　

“I　see　no　harm；”　William　blurted　out；　“in　helping　her—　
with　Greek；　for　example—if　she　really　cares　for　that　sort　
of　thing。”　

“There’s　no　reason　why　she　shouldn’t　care；”　said　

Katharine；　consulting　the　pages　once　more。　“In　fact—　
ah；　here　it　is—’The　Greek　alphabet　is　absolutely　fascinating。’　
Obviously　she　does　care。”　

“Well；　Greek　may　be　rather　a　large　order。　I　was　thinking　
chiefly　of　English。　Her　criticisms　of　my　play；　though　they’re　
too　generous；　evidently　immature—she　can’t　be　more　than　
twentytwo；　I　suppose？—they　certainly　show　the　sort　of　
thing　one　wants：　real　feeling　for　poetry；　understanding；　
not　formed；　of　course；　but　it’s　at　the　root　of　everything　
after　all。　There’d　be　no　harm　in　lending　her　books？”　

“No。　Certainly　not。”　

“But　if　it—hum—led　to　a　correspondence？　I　mean；　
Katharine；　I　take　it；　without　going　into　matters　which　
seem　to　me　a　little　morbid；　I　mean；”　he　floundered；　“you；　
from　your　point　of　view；　feel　that　there’s　nothing　disagreeable　
to　you　in　the　notion？　If　so；　you’ve　only　to　
speak；　and　I　never　think　of　it　again。”　

She　was　surprised　by　the　violence　of　her　desire　that　he　
never　should　think　of　it　again。　For　an　instant　it　seemed　
to　her　impossible　to　surrender　an　intimacy；　which　might　
not　be　the　intimacy　of　love；　but　was　certainly　the　inti


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macy　of　true　friendship；　to　any　woman　in　the　world。　
Cassandra　would　never　understand　him—she　was　not　good　
enough　for　him。　The　letter　seemed　to　her　a　letter　of　flattery—
a　letter　addressed　to　his　weakness；　which　it　made　
her　angry　to　think　was　known　to　another。　For　he　was　not　
weak；　he　had　the　rare　strength　of　doing　what　he　prom
ised—she　had　only　to　speak；　and　he　would　never　think　
of　Cassandra　again。　

She　paused。　Rodney　guessed　the　reason。　He　was　amazed。　

“She　loves　me；”　he　thought。　The　woman　he　admired　
more　than　any　one　in　the　world；　loved　him；　as　he　had　
given　up　hope　that　she　would　ever　love　him。　And　now　
that　for　the　first　time　he　was　sure　of　her　love；　he　resented　
it。　He　felt　it　as　a　fetter；　an　encumbrance；　something　
which　made　them　both；　but　him　in　particular；　ridiculous。　
He　was　in　her　power　pletely；　but　his　eyes　
were　open　and　he　was　no　longer　her　slave　or　her　dupe。　He　
would　be　her　master　in　future。　The　instant　prolonged　itself　
as　Katharine　realized　the　strength　of　her　desire　to　
speak　the　words　that　should　keep　William　for　ever；　and　
the　baseness　of　the　temptation　which　assailed　her　to　

make　the　movement；　or　speak　the　word；　which　he　had　
often　begged　her　for；　which　she　was　now　near　enough　to　
feeling。　She　held　the　letter　in　her　hand。　She　sat　silent。　

At　this　moment　there　was　a　stir　in　the　other　room；　the　
voice　of　Mrs。　Hilbery　was　heard　talking　of　proofsheets　
rescued　by　miraculous　providence　from　butcher’s　ledgers　
in　Australia；　the　curtain　separating　one　room　from　the　
other　was　drawn　apart；　and　Mrs。　Hilbery　and　Augustus　
Pelham　stood　in　the　doorway。　Mrs。　Hilbery　stopped　short。　
She　looked　at　her　daughter；　and　at　the　man　her　daughter　
was　to　marry；　with　her　peculiar　smile　that　always　seemed　
to　tremble　on　the　brink　of　satire。　

“The　best　of　all　my　treasures；　Mr。　Pelham！”　she　exclaimed。　
“Don’t　move；　Katharine。　Sit　still；　William。　Mr。　Pelham　will　
e　another　day。”　

Mr。　Pelham　looked；　smiled；　bowed；　and；　as　his　hostess　
had　moved　on；　followed　her　without　a　word。　The　curtain　
was　drawn　again　either　by　him　or　by　Mrs。　Hilbery。　

But　her　mother　had　settled　the　question　somehow。　
Katharine　doubted　no　longer。　

“As　I　told　you　last　night；”　she　said；　“I　think　it’s　your　

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duty；　if　there’s　a　chance　that　you　care　for　Cassandra；　to　
discover　what　your　feeling　is　for　her　now。　It’s　your　duty　
to　her；　as　well　as　to　me。　But　we　must　tell　my　mother。　We　
can’t　go　on　pretending。”　

“That　is　entirely　in　your　hands；　of　course；”　said　Rodney；　
with　an　immediate　return　to　the　manner　of　a　formal　man　
of　honor。　

“Very　well；”　said　Katharine。　

Directly　he　left　her　she　would　go　to　her　mother；　and　
explain　that　the　engagement　was　at　an　end—or　it　might　
be　better　that　they　should　go　together？　

“But；　Katharine；”　Rodney　began；　nervously　attempting　
to　stuff　Cassandra’s　sheets　back　into　their　envelope；　“if　
Cassandra—should　Cassandra—you’ve　asked　Cassandra　to　
stay　with　you。”　

“Yes；　but　I’ve　not　posted　the　letter。”　

He　crossed　his　knees　in　a　disfited　silence。　By　all　his　
codes　it　was　impossible　to　ask　a　woman　with　whom　he　
had　just　broken　off　his　engagement　to　help　him　to　bee　
acquainted　with　another　woman　with　a　view　to　his　
falling　in　love　with　her。　If　it　was　announced　that　their　

engagement　was　over；　a　long　and　plete　separation　
would　inevitably　follow；　in　those　circumstances；　letters　
and　gifts　were　returned；　after　years　of　distance　the　severed　
couple　met；　perhaps　at　an　eveni