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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第18部分
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of peevishness。
“No； it doesn’t interest me very much；” she replied candidly。
“What shall we talk about then？” he asked。
She looked rather whimsically round the walls of the
room。
“However we start； we end by talking about the same
thing—about poetry； I mean。 I wonder if you realize；
William； that I’ve never read even Shakespeare？ It’s rather
wonderful how I’ve kept it up all these years。”
“You’ve kept it up for ten years very beautifully； as far
as I’m concerned；” he said。
“Ten years？ So long as that？”
“And I don’t think it’s always bored you；” he added。
She looked into the fire silently。 She could not deny
that the surface of her feeling was absolutely unruffled
by anything in William’s character； on the contrary； she
felt certain that she could deal with whatever turned up。
He gave her peace； in which she could think of things
that were far removed from what they talked about。 Even
now； when he sat within a yard of her； how easily her
mind ranged hither and thither！ Suddenly a picture presented
itself before her； without any effort on her part as
pictures will； of herself in these very rooms； she had e
in from a lecture； and she held a pile of books in her
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hand； scientific books； and books about mathematics and
astronomy which she had mastered。 She put them down
on the table over there。 It was a picture plucked from her
life two or three years hence； when she was married to
William； but here she checked herself abruptly。
She could not entirely forget William’s presence； because；
in spite of his efforts to control himself； his nervousness
was apparent。 On such occasions his eyes protruded
more than ever； and his face had more than ever
the appearance of being covered with a thin crackling
skin； through which every flush of his volatile blood
showed itself instantly。 By this time he had shaped so
many sentences and rejected them； felt so many impulses
and subdued them； that he was a uniform scarlet。
“You may say you don’t read books；” he remarked； “but；
all the same； you know about them。 Besides； who wants
you to be learned？ Leave that to the poor devils who’ve
got nothing better to do。 You—you—ahem！—”
“Well； then； why don’t you read me something before I
go？” said Katharine； looking at her watch。
“Katharine； you’ve only just e！ Let me see now； what
have I got to show you？” He rose； and stirred about the
papers on his table； as if in doubt； he then picked up a
manuscript； and after spreading it smoothly upon his knee；
he looked up at Katharine suspiciously。 He caught her
smiling。
“I believe you only ask me to read out of kindness；” he
burst out。 “Let’s find something else to talk about。 Who
have you been seeing？”
“I don’t generally ask things out of kindness；” Katharine
observed； “however； if you don’t want to read； you
needn’t。”
William gave a queer snort of exasperation； and opened
his manuscript once more； though he kept his eyes upon
her face as he did so。 No face could have been graver or
more judicial。
“One can trust you； certainly； to say unpleasant things；”
he said； smoothing out the page； clearing his throat； and
reading half a stanza to himself。 “Ahem！ The Princess is
lost in the wood； and she hears the sound of a horn。
（This would all be very pretty on the stage； but I can’t
get the effect here。） Anyhow； Sylvano enters； acpa
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nied by the rest of the gentlemen of Gratian’s court。 I
begin where he soliloquizes。” He jerked his head and began
to read。
Although Katharine had just disclaimed any knowledge
of literature； she listened attentively。 At least； she listened
to the first twentyfive lines attentively； and then
she frowned。 Her attention was only aroused again when
Rodney raised his finger—a sign； she knew； that the meter
was about to change。
His theory was that every mood has its meter。 His mastery
of meters was very great； and； if the beauty of a
drama depended upon the variety of measures in which
the personages speak； Rodney’s plays must have challenged
the works of Shakespeare。 Katharine’s ignorance
of Shakespeare did not prevent her from feeling fairly
certain that plays should not produce a sense of chill
stupor in the audience； such as overcame her as the lines
flowed on； sometimes long and sometimes short； but always
delivered with the same lilt of voice； which seemed
to nail each line firmly on to the same spot in the hearer’s
brain。 Still； she reflected； these sorts of skill are almost
exclusively masculine； women neither practice them nor
know how to value them； and one’s husband’s proficiency
in this direction might legitimately increase one’s respect
for him； since mystification is no bad basis for respect。
No one could doubt that William was a scholar。 The reading
ended with the finish of the Act； Katharine had prepared
a little speech。
“That seems to me extremely well written； William； although；
of course； I don’t know enough to criticize in
detail。”
“But it’s the skill that strikes you—not the emotion？”
“In a fragment like that； of course； the skill strikes one
most。”
“But perhaps—have you time to listen to one more
short piece？ the scene between the lovers？ There’s some
real feeling in that； I think。 Denham agrees that it’s the
best thing I’ve done。”
“You’ve read it to Ralph Denham？” Katharine inquired；
with surprise。 “He’s a better judge than I am。 What did
he say？”
“My dear Katharine；” Rodney exclaimed； “I don’t ask
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you for criticism； as I should ask a scholar。 I dare say
there are only five men in England whose opinion of my
work matters a straw to me。 But I trust you where feeling
is concerned。 I had you in my mind often when I was
writing those scenes。 I kept asking myself； ‘Now is this
the sort of thing Katharine would like？’ I always think of
you when I’m writing； Katharine； even when it’s the sort
of thing you wouldn’t know about。 And I’d rather—yes； I
really believe I’d rather—you thought well of my writing
than any one in the world。”
This was so genuine a tribute to his trust in her that
Katharine was touched。
“You think too much of me altogether； William；” she
said； forgetting that she had not meant to speak in this
way。
“No； Katharine； I don’t；” he replied； replacing his manuscript
in the drawer。 “It does me good to think of you。”
So quiet an answer； followed as it was by no expression
of love； but merely by the statement that if she must go
he would take her to the Strand； and would； if she could
wait a moment； change his dressinggown for a coat；
moved her to the warmest feeling of affection for him
that she had yet experienced。 While he changed in the
next room； she stood by the bookcase； taking down books
and opening them； but reading nothing on their pages。
She felt certain that she would marry Rodney。 How could
one avoid it？ How could one find fault with it？ Here she
sighed； and； putting the thought of marriage away； fell
into a dream state； in which she became another person；
and the whole world seemed changed。 Being a frequent
visitor to that world； she could find her way there
unhesitatingly。 If she had tried to analyze her impressions；
she would have said that there dwelt the realities
of the appearances which figure in our world； so direct；
powerful； and unimpeded were her sensations there； pared
with those called forth in actual life。 There dwelt
the things one might have felt； had there been cause；
the perfect happiness of which here we taste the fragment；
the beauty seen here in flying glimpses only。 No
doubt much of the furniture of this world was drawn directly
from the past； and even from the England of the
Elizabethan age。 However the embellishment of this imagi
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nary world might change； two qualities were constant in
it。 It was a place where feelings were liberated from the
constraint which the real world puts upon them； and the
process of awakenment was always marked by resignation
and a kind of stoical acceptance of facts。 She met no
acquaintance there； as Denham did； miraculously transfigured；
she played no heroic part。 But there certainly
she loved some magnanimous hero； and as they swept
together among the leafhung trees of an unknown world；
they shared the feelings which came fresh and fast as the
waves on the shore。 But the sands of her liberation were
running fast； even through the forest branches came
sounds of Rodney moving things on his dressingtable；
and Katharine woke herself from this excursion by shutting
the cover of the book she was holding； and replacing
it in the bookshelf。
“William；” she said； speaking rather faintly at first； like
one sending a voice from sleep to reach the living。 “William；”
she repeated firmly； “if you still want me to marry
you； I will。”
Perhaps it was that no man could expect to have the
most momentous question of his life settled in a voice so
level； so toneless； so devoid of joy or energy。 At any rate
William made no answer。 She waited stoically。 A moment
later he stepped briskly from his dressingroom； and observed
that if she wanted to buy more oysters he thought
he knew where they could find a fishmonger’s shop still
open。 She breathed deeply a sigh of relief。
Extract from a letter sent a few days later by Mrs。 Hilbery
to her sisterinlaw； Mrs。 Milvain：
“ … How stupid of me to forget the name in my telegram。
Such a nice； rich； English name； too； and； in addition；
he has all the graces of intellect； he has read literally
everything。 I tell Katharine； I shall always put him on
my right side at dinner； so as to have him by me when
people begin talking about characters in Shakespeare。
They won’t be rich； but they’ll be very； very happy。 I was
sitting in my room late one night； feeling that nothing
nice would ever happen to me again； when I heard
Katharine outside in the passage； and I thought to my
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self； ‘Shall I call her in？’ and then I thought （in that
hopeless； dreary way one does think； with the fire going
out and one’s birthday just over）； ‘Why should I lay my
troubles on her？’ But my little selfcontrol had its reward；
for next moment she tapped at the door and came in； and
sat on the rug； and though we neither of us said anything；
I felt so happy all of a second that I couldn’t help
crying； ‘Oh； Katharine； when you e to my age； how I
hope you’ll have a daughter； too！’ You know how silent
Katharine is。 She was so silent； for such a long time； that
in my foolish； nervous state I dreaded something； I don’t
quite know what。 And then she told me how； after all；
she had made up her mind。 She had written。 She expected
him tomorrow。 At first I wasn’t glad at all。 I didn’t
want her to marry any one； but when she said； ‘It will
make no difference。 I shall always care for you and father
most；’ then I saw how selfish I was； and I told her she
must give him everything； everything； everything！ I told
her I should be thankful to e second。 But why； when
everything’s turned out just as one always hoped it would
turn out； why then can one do nothing but cry； nothing
but feel a desolate old woman whose life’s been a failure；
and now is nearly over； and age is so cruel？ But Katharine
said to me； ‘I am happy。 I’m very happy。’ And then I
thought； though it all seemed so desperately dismal at
the time； Katharine had said she was happy； and I should
have a son； and it would all turn out so much more wonderfully
than I could possibly imagine； for though the
sermons don’t say so； I do believe the world is meant for
us to be happy in。 She told me that they would live quite
near us； and see us every day； and she would go on with
the Life； and we should finish it as we had meant to。
And； after all； it would be far more horrid if she didn’t
marry—or suppose she married some one we couldn’t
endure？ Suppose she had fallen in love with some one
who was married already？
“And though one never thinks any one good enough for
the people one’s fond of； he has the kindest； truest instincts；
I’m sure； and though he seems nervous and his
manner is not manding； I only think these things
because it’s Katharine。 And now I’ve written this； it es
over me that； of course； all the time； Katharine has what
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he hasn’t。 She does mand； she isn’t nervous； it es
naturally to her to rule and control。 It’s time that she
should give all this to some one who will need her when
we aren’t there； save in our spirits； for whatever people
say； I’m sure I shall e back to this wonderful world
where one’s been so happy and so miserable； where； even
now； I seem to see myself stretching out my hands for
another present from the great Fairy Tree whose boughs
are still hung with enchanting toys； though they are rarer
now； perhaps； and between the branches one sees no
longer the blue sky； but the stars and the tops of the
mountains。
“One doesn’t know any more； does one？ One hasn’t any
advice to give one’s children。 One can only hope that
they will have the same vision and the same power to
believe； without which life would be so meaningless。 That
is what I ask for Katharine and her husband。”
CHAPTER XII
Is Mr。 Hilbery at home； or Mrs。 Hilbery？” Denham asked；
of the parlormaid in Chelsea； a week later。
“No； sir。 But Miss Hilbery is at home；” the girl answered。
Ralph had anticipated many answers； but not this one；
and now it was unexpectedly made plain to him that it
was the chance of seeing Katharine that had brought him
all the way to Chelsea on pretence of seeing her father。
He made some show of considering the matter； and was
taken upstairs to the drawingroom。 As upon that first
occasion； some weeks ago； the door closed as if it were a
thousand doors softly excluding the world； and once more
Ralph received an impression of a room full of deep shadows；
firelight； unwavering silver candle flames； and empty
spaces to be crossed before reaching the round table in
the middle of the room； with its frail burden of silver
trays and china teacups。 But this time Katharine was there
by herself； the volume in her hand showed that she expected
no visitors。
Ralph said something about hoping to find her father。
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“My father is out；” she replied。 “But if you can wait； I
expect him soon。”
It might have been due merely to politeness； but Ralph
felt that she received him almost with cordiality。 Perhaps
she was bored by drinking tea and reading a book all
alone； at any rate； she tossed the book on to a sofa with
a gesture of relief。
“Is that one of the moderns whom you despise？” he
asked； smiling at the carelessness of her gesture。
“Yes；” she replied。 “I think even you would despise him。”
“Even I？�
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