[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第8章

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nieenth　century；　are　apt　to　bee　people　of　importance—
philanthropists　and　educationalists　if　they　are　
spinsters；　and　the　wives　of　distinguished　men　if　they　marry。　
It　is　true　that　there　were　several　lamentable　exceptions　
to　this　rule　in　the　Alardyce　group；　which　seems　to　indicate　
that　the　cadets　of　such　houses　go　more　rapidly　to　
the　bad　than　the　children　of　ordinary　fathers　and　mothers；　
as　if　it　were　somehow　a　relief　to　them。　But；　on　the　
whole；　in　these　first　years　of　the　twentieth　century；　the　

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Night　and　Day　

Alardyces　and　their　relations　were　keeping　their　heads　well　
above　water。　One　finds　them　at　the　tops　of　professions；　
with　letters　after　their　names；　they　sit　in　luxurious　public　
offices；　with　private　secretaries　attached　to　them；　they　
write　solid　books　in　dark　covers；　issued　by　the　presses　of　
the　two　great　universities；　and　when　one　of　them　dies　the　
chances　are　that　another　of　them　writes　his　biography。　

Now　the　source　of　this　nobility　was；　of　course；　the　poet；　
and　his　immediate　descendants；　therefore；　were　invested　
with　greater　luster　than　the　collateral　branches。　Mrs。　
Hilbery；　in　virtue　of　her　position　as　the　only　child　of　the　
poet；　was　spiritually　the　head　of　the　family；　and　Katharine；　
her　daughter；　had　some　superior　rank　among　all　the　cousins　
and　connections；　the　more　so　because　she　was　an　only　
child。　The　Alardyces　had　married　and　intermarried；　and　
their　offspring　were　generally　profuse；　and　had　a　way　of　
meeting　regularly　in　each　other’s　houses　for　meals　and　
family　celebrations　which　had　acquired　a　semisacred　
character；　and　were　as　regularly　observed　as　days　of　feasting　
and　fasting　in　the　Church。　

In　times　gone　by；　Mrs。　Hilbery　had　known　all　the　poets；　

all　the　novelists；　all　the　beautiful　women　and　distinguished　
men　of　her　time。　These　being　now　either　dead　or　secluded　
in　their　infirm　glory；　she　made　her　house　a　meet
ingplace　for　her　own　relations；　to　whom　she　would　lament　
the　passing　of　the　great　days　of　the　nieenth　
century；　when　every　department　of　letters　and　art　was　
represented　in　England　by　two　or　three　illustrious　names。　
Where　are　their　successors？　she　would　ask；　and　the　absence　
of　any　poet　or　painter　or　novelist　of　the　true　caliber　
at　the　present　day　was　a　text　upon　which　she　liked　to　
ruminate；　in　a　sunset　mood　of　benignant　reminiscence；　
which　it　would　have　been　hard　to　disturb　had　there　been　
need。　But　she　was　far　from　visiting　their　inferiority　upon　
the　younger　generation。　She　weled　them　very　heartily　
to　her　house；　told　them　her　stories；　gave　them　sovereigns　
and　ices　and　good　advice；　and　weaved　round　them　
romances　which　had　generally　no　likeness　to　the　truth。　

The　quality　of　her　birth　oozed　into　Katharine’s　consciousness　
from　a　dozen　different　sources　as　soon　as　she　
was　able　to　perceive　anything。　Above　her　nursery　fireplace　
hung　a　photograph　of　her　grandfather’s　tomb　in　

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Virginia　Woolf　

Poets’　Corner；　and　she　was　told　in　one　of　those　moments　
of　grownup　confidence　which　are　so　tremendously　impressive　
to　the　child’s　mind；　that　he　was　buried　there　
because　he　was　a　“good　and　great　man。”　Later；　on　an　
anniversary；　she　was　taken　by　her　mother　through　the　
fog　in　a　hansom　cab；　and　given　a　large　bunch　of　bright；　
sweetscented　flowers　to　lay　upon　his　tomb。　The　candles　
in　the　church；　the　singing　and　the　booming　of　the　organ；　
were　all；　she　thought；　in　his　honor。　Again　and　again　she　
was　brought　down　into　the　drawingroom　to　receive　the　
blessing　of　some　awful　distinguished　old　man；　who　sat；　
even　to　her　childish　eye；　somewhat　apart；　all　gathered　
together　and　clutching　a　stick；　unlike　an　ordinary　visitor　
in　her　father’s　own　armchair；　and　her　father　himself　was　
there；　unlike　himself；　too；　a　little　excited　and　very　polite。　
These　formidable　old　creatures　used　to　take　her　in　
their　arms；　look　very　keenly　in　her　eyes；　and　then　to　
bless　her；　and　tell　her　that　she　must　mind　and　be　a　good　
girl；　or　detect　a　look　in　her　face　something　like　Richard’s　
as　a　small　boy。　That　drew　down　upon　her　her　mother’s　
fervent　embrace；　and　she　was　sent　back　to　the　nursery　

very　proud；　and　with　a　mysterious　sense　of　an　important　
and　unexplained　state　of　things；　which　time；　by　degrees；　
unveiled　to　her。　

There　were　always　visitors—uncles　and　aunts　and　cousins　
“from　India；”　to　be　reverenced　for　their　relationship　
alone；　and　others　of　the　solitary　and　formidable　class；　
whom　she　was　enjoined　by　her　parents　to　“remember　all　
your　life。”　By　these　means；　and　from　hearing　constant　
talk　of　great　men　and　their　works；　her　earliest　conceptions　
of　the　world　included　an　august　circle　of　beings　to　
whom　she　gave　the　names　of　Shakespeare；　Milton；　
Wordsworth；　Shelley；　and　so　on；　who　were；　for　some　reason；　
much　more　nearly　akin　to　the　Hilberys　than　to　other　
people。　They　made　a　kind　of　boundary　to　her　vision　of　
life；　and　played　a　considerable　part　in　determining　her　
scale　of　good　and　bad　in　her　own　small　affairs。　Her　descent　
from　one　of　these　gods　was　no　surprise　to　her；　but　
matter　for　satisfaction；　until；　as　the　years　wore　on；　the　
privileges　of　her　lot　were　taken　for　granted；　and　certain　
drawbacks　made　themselves　very　manifest。　Perhaps　it　is　
a　little　depressing　to　inherit　not　lands　but　an　example　of　

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Night　and　Day　

intellectual　and　spiritual　virtue；　perhaps　the　conclusiveness　
of　a　great　ancestor　is　a　little　discouraging　to　those　
who　run　the　risk　of　parison　with　him。　It　seems　as　if；　
having　flowered　so　splendidly；　nothing　now　remained　
possible　but　a　steady　growth　of　good；　green　stalk　and　
leaf。　For　these　reasons；　and　for　others；　Katharine　had　her　
moments　of　despondency。　The　glorious　past；　in　which　men　
and　women　grew　to　unexampled　size；　intruded　too　much　
upon　the　present；　and　dwarfed　it　too　consistently；　to　be　
altogether　encouraging　to　one　forced　to　make　her　experiment　
in　living　when　the　great　age　was　dead。　

She　was　drawn　to　dwell　upon　these　matters　more　than　
was　natural；　in　the　first　place　owing　to　her　mother’s　absorption　
in　them；　and　in　the　second　because　a　great　part　
of　her　time　was　spent　in　imagination　with　the　dead；　since　
she　was　helping　her　mother　to　produce　a　life　of　the　great　
poet。　When　Katharine　was　seventeen　or　eighteen—that　
is　to　say；　some　ten　years　ago—her　mother　had　enthusiastically　
announced　that　now；　with　a　daughter　to　help　
her；　the　biography　would　soon　be　published。　Notices　to　
this　effect　found　their　way　into　the　literary　papers；　and　

for　some　time　Katharine　worked　with　a　sense　of　great　
pride　and　achievement。　

Lately；　however；　it　had　seemed　to　her　that　they　were　
making　no　way　at　all；　and　this　was　the　more　tantalizing　
because　no　one　with　the　ghost　of　a　literary　temperament　
could　doubt　but　that　they　had　materials　for　one　of　the　
greatest　biographies　that　has　ever　been　written。　Shelves　
and　boxes　bulged　with　the　precious　stuff。　The　most　private　
lives　of　the　most　interesting　people　lay　furled　in　
yellow　bundles　of　closewritten　manuscript。　In　addition　
to　this　Mrs。　Hilbery　had　in　her　own　head　as　bright　a　vision　
of　that　time　as　now　remained　to　the　living；　and　
could　give　those　flashes　and　thrills　to　the　old　words　which　
gave　them　almost　the　substance　of　flesh。　She　had　no　
difficulty　in　writing；　and　covered　a　page　every　morning　
as　instinctively　as　a　thrush　sings；　but　nevertheless；　with　
all　this　to　urge　and　inspire；　and　the　most　devout　intention　
to　acplish　the　work；　the　book　still　remained　unwritten。　
Papers　accumulated　without　much　furthering　their　
task；　and　in　dull　moments　Katharine　had　her　doubts　
whether　they　would　ever　produce　anything　at　all　fit　to　

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Virginia　Woolf　

lay　before　the　public。　Where　did　the　difficulty　lie？　Not　in　
their　materials；　alas！　nor　in　their　ambitions；　but　in　something　
more　profound；　in　her　own　inaptitude；　and　above　
all；　in　her　mother’s　temperament。　Katharine　would　calculate　
that　she　had　never　known　her　write　for　more　than　
ten　minutes　at　a　time。　Ideas　came　to　her　chiefly　when　
she　was　in　motion。　She　liked　to　perambulate　the　room　
with　a　duster　in　her　hand；　with　which　she　stopped　to　
polish　the　backs　of