[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第14部分

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everything　was　surrendered；　and　nothing　might　be　re


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Night　and　Day　

claimed。　The　man；　too；　was　some　magnanimous　hero；　
riding　a　great　horse　by　the　shore　of　the　sea。　They　rode　
through　forests　together；　they　galloped　by　the　rim　of　the　
sea。　But　waking；　she　was　able　to　contemplate　a　perfectly　
loveless　marriage；　as　the　thing　one　did　actually　in　real　
life；　for　possibly　the　people　who　dream　thus　are　those　
who　do　the　most　prosaic　things。　

At　this　moment　she　was　much　inclined　to　sit　on　into　
the　night；　spinning　her　light　fabric　of　thoughts　until　she　
tired　of　their　futility；　and　went　to　her　mathematics；　but；　
as　she　knew　very　well；　it　was　necessary　that　she　should　
see　her　father　before　he　went　to　bed。　The　case　of　Cyril　
Alardyce　must　be　discussed；　her　mother’s　illusions　and　
the　rights　of　the　family　attended　to。　Being　vague　herself　
as　to　what　all　this　amounted　to；　she　had　to　take　counsel　
with　her　father。　She　took　her　letters　in　her　hand　and　went　
downstairs。　It　was　past　eleven；　and　the　clocks　had　e　
into　their　reign；　the　grandfather’s　clock　in　the　hall　ticking　
in　petition　with　the　small　clock　on　the　landing。　
Mr。　Hilbery’s　study　ran　out　behind　the　rest　of　the　house；　
on　the　ground　floor；　and　was　a　very　silent；　subterranean　

place；　the　sun　in　daytime　casting　a　mere　abstract　of　light　
through　a　skylight　upon　his　books　and　the　large　table；　
with　its　spread　of　white　papers；　now　illumined　by　a　green　
readinglamp。　Here　Mr。　Hilbery　sat　editing　his　review；　or　
placing　together　documents　by　means　of　which　it　could　
be　proved　that　Shelley　had　written　“of”　instead　of　“and；”　
or　that　the　inn　in　which　Byron　had　slept　was　called　the　
“Nag’s　Head”　and　not　the　“Turkish　Knight；”　or　that　the　
Christian　name　of　Keats’s　uncle　had　been　John　rather　
than　Richard；　for　he　knew　more　minute　details　about　these　
poets　than　any　man　in　England；　probably；　and　was　preparing　
an　edition　of　Shelley　which　scrupulously　observed　
the　poet’s　system　of　punctuation。　He　saw　the　humor　of　
these　researches；　but　that　did　not　prevent　him　from　carrying　
them　out　with　the　utmost　scrupulosity。　

He　was　lying　back　fortably　in　a　deep　armchair　smoking　
a　cigar；　and　ruminating　the　fruitful　question　as　to　
whether　Coleridge　had　wished　to　marry　Dorothy　
Wordsworth；　and　what；　if　he　had　done　so；　would　have　
been　the　consequences　to　him　in　particular；　and　to　literature　
in　general。　When　Katharine　came　in　he　reflected　

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that　he　knew　what　she　had　e　for；　and　he　made　a　
pencil　note　before　he　spoke　to　her。　Having　done　this；　he　
saw　that　she　was　reading；　and　he　watched　her　for　a　moment　
without　saying　anything。　She　was　reading　“Isabella　
and　the　Pot　of　Basil；”　and　her　mind　was　full　of　the　Italian　
hills　and　the　blue　daylight；　and　the　hedges　set　with　little　
rosettes　of　red　and　white　roses。　Feeling　that　her　father　
waited　for　her；　she　sighed　and　said；　shutting　her　book：　

“I’ve　had　a　letter　from　Aunt　Celia　about　Cyril；　father…　。　It　
seems　to　be　true—about　his　marriage。　What　are　we　to　do？”　

“Cyril　seems　to　have　been　behaving　in　a　very　foolish　
manner；”　said　Mr。　Hilbery；　in　his　pleasant　and　deliberate　
tones。　

Katharine　found　some　difficulty　in　carrying　on　the　conversation；　
while　her　father　balanced　his　fingertips　so　
judiciously；　and　seemed　to　reserve　so　many　of　his　thoughts　
for　himself。　

“He’s　about　done　for　himself；　I　should　say；”　he　continued。　
Without　saying　anything；　he　took　Katharine’s　letters　
out　of　her　hand；　adjusted　his　eyeglasses；　and　read　them　
through。　

At　length　he　said　“Humph！”　and　gave　the　letters　back　
to　her。　

“Mother　knows　nothing　about　it；”　Katharine　remarked。　
“Will　you　tell　her？”　

“I　shall　tell　your　mother。　But　I　shall　tell　her　that　there　
is　nothing　whatever　for　us　to　do。”　

“But　the　marriage？”　Katharine　asked；　with　some　diffidence。　


Mr。　Hilbery　said　nothing；　and　stared　into　the　fire。　

“What　in　the　name　of　conscience　did　he　do　it　for？”　he　
speculated　at　last；　rather　to　himself　than　to　her。　

Katharine　had　begun　to　read　her　aunt’s　letter　over　again；　
and　she　now　quoted　a　sentence。　“Ibsen　and　Butler…　。　He　
has　sent　me　a　letter　full　of　quotations—nonsense；　though　
clever　nonsense。”　

“Well；　if　the　younger　generation　want　to　carry　on　its　
life　on　those　lines；　it’s　none　of　our　affair；”　he　remarked。　

“But　isn’t　it　our　affair；　perhaps；　to　make　them　get　married？”　
Katharine　asked　rather　wearily。　

“Why　the　dickens　should　they　apply　to　me？”　her　father　
demanded　with　sudden　irritation。　

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“Only　as　the　head　of　the　family—”　

“But　I’m　not　the　head　of　the　family。　Alfred’s　the　head　of　
the　family。　Let　them　apply　to　Alfred；”　said　Mr。　Hilbery；　
relapsing　again　into　his　armchair。　Katharine　was　aware　
that　she　had　touched　a　sensitive　spot；　however；　in　mentioning　
the　family。　

“I　think；　perhaps；　the　best　thing　would　be　for　me　to　go　
and　see　them；”　she　observed。　

“I　won’t　have　you　going　anywhere　near　them；”　Mr。　
Hilbery　replied　with　unwonted　decision　and　authority。　
“Indeed；　I　don’t　understand　why　they’ve　dragged　you　into　
the　business　at　all—I　don’t　see　that　it’s　got　anything　to　
do　with　you。”　

“I’ve　always　been　friends　with　Cyril；”　Katharine　observed。　

“But　did　he　ever　tell　you　anything　about　this？”　Mr。　
Hilbery　asked　rather　sharply。　

Katharine　shook　her　head。　She　was；　indeed；　a　good　deal　
hurt　that　Cyril　had　not　confided　in　her—did　he　think；　as　
Ralph　Denham　or　Mary　Datchet　might　think；　that　she　was；　
for　some　reason；　unsympathetic—hostile　even？　

“As　to　your　mother；”　said　Mr。　Hilbery；　after　a　pause；　in　

which　he　seemed　to　be　considering　the　color　of　the　flames；　
“you　had　better　tell　her　the　facts。　She’d　better　know　the　
facts　before　every　one　begins　to　talk　about　it；　though　
why　Aunt　Celia　thinks　it　necessary　to　e；　I’m　sure　I　
don’t　know。　And　the　less　talk　there　is　the　better。”　

Granting　the　assumption　that　gentlemen　of　sixty　who　
are　highly　cultivated；　and　have　had　much　experience　of　
life；　probably　think　of　many　things　which　they　do　not　say；　
Katharine　could　not　help　feeling　rather　puzzled　by　her　
father’s　attitude；　as　she　went　back　to　her　room。　What　a　
distance　he　was　from　it　all！　How　superficially　he　smoothed　
these　events　into　a　semblance　of　decency　which　harmonized　
with　his　own　view　of　life！　He　never　wondered　what　
Cyril　had　felt；　nor　did　the　hidden　aspects　of　the　case　tempt　
him　to　examine　into　them。　He　merely　seemed　to　realize；　
rather　languidly；　that　Cyril　had　behaved　in　a　way　which　
was　foolish；　because　other　people　did　not　behave　in　that　
way。　He　seemed　to　be　looking　through　a　telescope　at　little　
figures　hundreds　of　miles　in　the　distance。　

Her　selfish　anxiety　not　to　have　to　tell　Mrs。　Hilbery　what　
had　happened　made　her　follow　her　father　into　the　hall　

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after　breakfast　the　next　morning　in　order　to　question　
him。　

“Have　you　told　mother？”　she　asked。　Her　manner　to　her　
father　was　almost　stern；　and　she　seemed　to　hold　endless　
depths　of　reflection　in　the　dark　of　her　eyes。　

Mr。　Hilbery　sighed。　

“My　dear　child；　it　went　out　of　my　head。”　He　smoothed　
his　silk　hat　energetically；　and　at　once　affected　an　air　of　
hurry。　“I’ll　send　a　note　round　from　the　office…　。　I’m　late　
this　morning；　and　I’ve　any　amount　of　proofs　to　get　
through。”　

“That　wouldn’t　do　at　all；”　Katharine　said　decidedly。　“She　
must　be　told—you　or　I　must　tell　her。　We　ought　to　have　
told　her　at　first。”　

Mr。　Hilbery　had　now　placed　his　hat　on　his　head；　and　his　
hand　was　on　the　doorknob。　An　expression　which　Katharine　
knew　well　from　her　childhood；　when　he　asked　her　to　shield　
him　in　some　neglect　of　duty；　came　into　his　eyes；　malice；　
humor；　and　irresponsibility　were　blended　in　it。　He　nodded　
his　head　to　and　fro　significantly；　opened　the　door　
with　an　adroit　movement；　and　stepped　out　with　a　light


ness　unexpected　at　his　age。　He　waved　his　hand　once　to　
his　daughter；　and　was　gone。　Left　alone；　Katharine　could　
not　help　laughing　to　find　herself　cheated　as　usual　in　domestic　
bargainings　with　her　father；　and　left　to　do　the　
disagreeable　work　which　belonged；　by　rights；　to　him。　

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Night　and　Day　

CHAPTER　IX　this　morning；　and　get　a　lot　done。”　

Katharine　disliked　telling　her　mother　about　Cyril’s　misbehavior　
quite　as　much　as　her　father　did；　and　for　much　the　
same　reasons。　They　both　shrank；　nervously；　as　people　fear　
the　report　of　a　gun　on　the　stage；　from　all　that　would　have　
to　be　said　on　this　occasion。　Katharine；　moreover；　was　
unable　to　decide　what　she　thought　of　Cyril’s　misbehavior。　
As　usual；　she　saw　something　which　her　father　and　mother　
did　not　see；　and　the　effect　of　that　something　was　to　
suspend　Cyril’s　behavior　in　her　mind　without　any　qualification　
at　all。　They　would　think　whether　it　was　good　or　
bad；　to　her　it　was　merely　a　thing　that　had　happened。　

When　Katharine　reached　the　study；　Mrs。　Hilbery　had　
already　dipped　her　pen　in　the　ink。　

“Katharine；”　she　said；　lifting　it　in　the　air；　“I’ve　just　
made　out　such　a　queer；　strange　thing　about　your　grandfather。　
I’m　three　years　and　six　months　older　than　he　was　
when　he　died。　I　couldn’t　very　well　have　been　his　mother；　
but　I　might　have　been　his　elder　sister；　and　that　seems　to　
me　such　a　pleasant　fancy。　I’m　going　to　start　quite　fresh　

She　began　her　sentence；　at　any　rate；　and　Katharine　sat　
down　at　her　own　table；　untied　the　bundle　of　old　letters　
upon　which　she　was　working；　smoothed　them　out　absent
mindedly；　and　began　to　decipher　the　faded　script。　
In　a　minute　she　looked　across　at　her　mother；　to　judge　her　
mood。　Peace　and　happiness　had　relaxed　every　muscle　in　
her　face；　her　lips　were　parted　very　slightly；　and　her　breath　
came　in　smooth；　controlled　inspirations　like　those　of　a　
child　who　is　surrounding　itself　with　a　building　of　bricks；　
and　increasing　in　ecstasy　as　each　brick　is　placed　in　position。　
So　Mrs。　Hilbery　was　raising　round　her　the　skies　and　
trees　of　the　past　with　every　stroke　of　her　pen；　and　recalling　
the　voices　of　the　dead。　Quiet　as　the　room　was；　and　
undisturbed　by　the　sounds　of　the　present　moment；　
Katharine　could　fancy　that　here　was　a　deep　pool　of　past　
time；　and　that　she　and　her　mother　were　bathed　in　the　
light　of　sixty　years　ago。　What　could　the　present　give；　she　
wondered；　to　pare　with　the　rich　crowd　of　gifts　bestowed　
by　the　past？　Here　was　a　Thursday　morning　in　process　
of　manufacture；　each　second　was　minted　fresh　by　

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the　clock　upon　the　mantelpiece。　She　strained　her　ears　
and　could　just　hear；　far　off；　the　hoot　of　a　motorcar　and　
the　rush　of　wheels　ing　nearer　and　dying　away　again；　
and　the　voices　of　men　crying　old　iron　and　vegetables　in　
one　of　the　poorer　streets　at　the　back　of　the　house。　Rooms；　
of　course；　accumulate　their　suggestions；　and　any　room　in　
which　one　has　been　used　to　carry　on　any　particular　occupation　
gives　off　memories　of　moods；　of　ideas；　of　postures　
that　have　been　seen　in　it；　so　that　to　attempt　any　different　
kind　of　work　there　is　almost　impossible。　

Katharine　was　unconsciously　affected；　each　time　she　
entered　her　mother’s　room；　by　all　these　influences；　which　
had　had　their　birth　years　ago；　when　she　was　a　child；　and　
had　something　sweet　and　solemn　about　them；　and　connected　
themselves　with　early　memories　of　the　cavernous　
glooms　and　sonorous　echoes　of　the　Abbey　where　her　grandfather　
lay　buried。　All　the　books　and　pictures；　even　the　
chairs　and　tables；　had　belonged　to　him；　or　had　reference　
to　him；　even　the　china　dogs　on　the　mantelpiece　and　the　
little　shepherdesses　with　their　sheep　had　been　bought　by　
him　for　a　penny　a　piece　from　a　man　who　used　to　stand　

with　a　tray　of　toys　in　Kensington　High　Street；　as　Katharine　
had　often　heard　her　mother　tell。　Often　she　had　sat　in　this　
room；　with　her　mind　fixed　so　firmly　on　those　vanished　
figures　that　she　could　almost　see　the　muscles　round　their　
eyes　and　lips；　and　had　given　to　each　his　own　voice；　with　
its　tricks　of　accent；　and　his　coat　and　his　cravat。　Often　
she　had　seemed　to　herself　to　be　moving　among　them；　an　
invisible　ghost　among　the　living；　better　acquainted　with　
them　than　with　her　own　friends；　because　she　knew　their　
secrets　and　possessed　a　divine　foreknowledge　of　their　
destiny。　They　had　been　so　unhappy；　such　muddlers；　so　
wrongheaded；　it　seemed　to　her。　She　could　have　told　them　
what　to　do；　and　what　not　to　do。　It　was　a　melancholy　fact　
that　they　would　pay　no　heed　to　her；　and　were　bound　to　
e　to　grief　in　their　own　antiquated　way。　Their　behavior　
was　often　grotesquely　irrational；　their　conventions　
monstrously　absurd；　and　yet；　as　she　brooded　upon　them；　
she　felt　so　closely　attached　to　them　that　it　was　useless　
to　try　to　pass　judgment　upon　them。　She　very　nearly　lost　
consciousness　that　she　was　a　separate　being；　with　a　future　
of　her　own。　On　a　morning　of　slight　depression；　such　

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as　this；　she　would　try　to　find　some　sort　of　clue　to　the　
muddle　which　their　old　letters　presented；　some　reason　
which　seemed　to　make　it　worth　while　to　them；　some　aim　
which　they　kept　steadily　in　view—but　she　was　interrupted。　

Mrs。　Hilbery　had　risen　from　her　table；　and　was　standing　
looking　out　of　the　window　at　a　string　of　barges　swimming　
up　the　river。　

Katharine　watched　her。　Suddenly　Mrs。　Hilbery　turned　
abruptly；　and　exclaimed：　

“I　really　believe　I’m　bewitched！　I　only　want　three　sentences；　
you　see；　something　quite　straightforward　and　
monplace；　and　I　can’t　find　‘em。”　

She　began　to　pace　up　and　down　the　room；　snatching　up　
her　duster；　but　she　was　too　much　annoyed　to　find　any　
relief；　as　yet；　in　polishing　the　backs　of　books。　

“Besides；”　she　said；　giving　the　sheet　she　had　written　to　
Katharine；　“I　don’t　believe　this’ll　do。　Did　your　grandfather　
ever　visit　the　Hebrides；　Katharine？”　She　looked　in　a　
strangely　beseeching　way　at　her　daughter。　“My　mind　got　
running　on　the　Hebrides；　and　I　couldn’t　help　writing　a　
little　description　of　them。　Perhaps　it　would　do　at　the　

beginning　of　a　chapter。　Chapters　often　begin　quite　differently　
from　the　way　they　go　on；　you　know。”　Katharine　
read　what　her　mother　had　written。　She　might　have　been　
a　schoolmaster　criticizing　a　child’s　essay。　Her　face　gave　
Mrs。　Hilbery；　who　watched　it　anxiously；　no　ground　for　
hope。　

“It’s　very　beautiful；”　she　stated；　“but；　you　see；　mother；　
we　ought　to　go　from　point　to　point—”　

“Oh；　I　know；”　Mrs。　Hilbery　exclaimed。　“And　that’s　just　
what　I　can’t　do。　Things　keep　ing　into　my　head。　It　
isn’t　that　I　don’t　know　everything　and　feel　everything　
（who　did　know　him；　if　I　didn’t？）；　but　I　can’t　put　it　down；　
you　see。　There’s　a　kind　of　blind　spot；”　she　said；　touching　
her　forehead；　“there。　And　when　I　can’t　sleep　o’　nights；　I　
fancy　I　shall　die　without　having　done　it。”　

From　exultation　she　had　passed　to　the　depths　of　depression　
which　the　imagination　of　her　death　aroused。　The　
depression　municated　itself　to　Katharine。　How　impotent　
they　were；　fiddling　about　all　day　long　with　papers！　
And　the　clock　was　striking　eleven　and　nothing　done！　She　
watched　her　mother；　now　rummaging　in　a　great　brass


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